


As Natural As

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Series: Collusion [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Eating Cum, Experienced/Inexperienced, Facials, Fingerfucking, First Time, Hand Jobs, Intimacy, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, cute sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro's definitely got more experience than John does, but for some reason, he's absolutely enthralled with the "eager little spitfuck." It should feel wrong, but it's as natural as a heartbeat. As natural as breathing.</p><p>--</p><p>Concurrent with Groove. "Chose not to use archive warnings" because John is only 17 for part of the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathing

You’re the Heir of Breath, and yet you can’t seem to breathe. Whenever you do, the heady scent of Bro’s cologne overpowers you, cologne and musk and sweat and soap and cotton, and it just makes you push your tongue into his mouth harder.

Your glasses jostle askew on your face; Bro reaches up to right them. He’s never blinded you, and you appreciate that. In return, you haven’t tried to take off his shades. It’s better this way. It feels less wrong to make out with your best friend’s guardian when you’re still behind the anonymity of these lenses.

Really, you’re not entirely sure why you thought it was wrong in the first place. Bro’s large, hot hands slip under your shirt, his fingers reaching up to outline your ribs, and you press closer to him, to his touch, wanting to absorb his body heat even though it’s already stupidly hot outside and there’s something burning under your own skin. His mouth slips against yours, your eyewear clacking, but you don’t care.

Bro’s hands trace the small of your back, the oversensitive skin prickling at his ghosting touch; you throw your head back, feeling your adam’s apple working in a moan, and his mouth moves to your neck, his kiss absorbing the sound. Then it’s his teeth scraping, making you make noise all over again, and you reach up with one hand to keep his head in place. Let him make a mark. Let them see.

Meanwhile, his hands are moving down, grasping at your ass and squeezing once, hard, before rising up again. This time, they dip underneath your shorts, under your boxers, even, and you can feel hot, soft leather and the callouses of his fingertips as he gropes your bare skin. On his lap, you move your hips against him, loving the feel of his hold. You’re hard already, just from this much teasing, this much kissing, and Bro lets out a little chuckle near your ear. “Eager little spitfuck, ain’tcha.”

“Feels good,” you mumble against the skin of his neck, clutching onto his shoulders as he continues to rock you against him. You still have to remind yourself to breathe – soft fabric, laundry detergent, deodorant, sweat, Bro, Bro, Bro – and to make up for it, you kiss your way up his neck, mouth landing on his earlobe before you start to suck.

The little noise Bro makes in return is totally worth it. He ups the ante on you, too, slipping his hands around to your front. “Shh,” he says, and it sounds absurd coming out of his mouth, until warm, rough fingers come around your cock in a perfect grip and start pumping you.

“Oh!” You’re sure your face is absolutely red by now. You flush when you get excited, and you can tell the heat in your skin has spread all the way down to your shoulders by now, up to the tips of your ears. Bro gets one of those ear tips in his mouth, worrying at the shell of your ear gently with his teeth as he keeps moving his hand along your shaft with slow, thorough strokes.

Bro brings up the pad of his thumb to touch your slit, smear your pre over the head of your cock, and it feels so amazing that you buck up into his grip like you’re trying to fuck his hand. “Yeah, just like that, take it easy,” he tells you, his breath hot against your ear, his voice warm and seductive as his other hand comes to clutch at your hip, keep you in place while he works on you.

You’re always overpowered by him, overwhelmed and overcome – sometimes literally, jets of it spurting over the top of his hand as he jacks you off, but not this time, you won’t shoot off so soon this time. This is as far as you’ve gone, though, and sometimes, it’s still too much. You still feel like you owe him; you’re inexperienced and you don’t know what you’re doing, and it’s painfully obvious to you whenever Bro pulls you apart like this. Are you just supposed to be his plaything, his little pet that he likes to bring to orgasm?

You want to give back, and so you reach forward, shaking hands working on Bro’s belt while you wet your lips with the tip of your tongue. Predictably, he takes that tip between his teeth teasingly, making you moan into his mouth, and you almost forget what you were trying to do for a few seconds. You just hope he sees your clumsy fumblings as endearing, because, from your point of view, they certainly aren’t sexy in the slightest.

And even as you undo the front of Bro’s jeans, even as you reach in and fondle his cock through his boxers, he still works on you, slow but sure, each stroke engineered with perfect precision to do indescribable things to your body. For a kind of balance, you rest your forehead against his shoulder before grasping at Bro’s cotton-covered dick again. “Whoa,” you say to no one in particular. Your hands aren’t exactly small, even if they aren’t quite as big as Bro’s, and still it seems to take forever for you to sweep your palm up from the base to the tip. You can feel a little bumpy ridge under your fingers just under the flare of his corona – veins? Or something else?

You’re just at the point of screwing up your chickenshit excuse for courage so you can pull his cock out and touch it properly when Bro seems to get a better idea. “I wanna see you,” he says, his voice still suave but with an undertone of avarice. From where he has you on his lap, he holds you close, then pushes you back into the mattress before starting to work off your shorts and your boxers.

You can’t help it – you cover your dick with both hands. This will be the first time someone’s seen – that – like this – naked. And you’re embarrassed. You kind of want to sink through the bed and maybe melt through the core of the earth and end up in China or bumfuck Egypt or somewhere far, far away where Bro doesn’t have to see your cock. It doesn’t matter that he’s already felt it rigid against his leather-clad hand, the fact that he’s about to actually view it makes you shiver with vulnerability.

When Bro gets done throwing your clothes on the floor, he sees your lame attempt at a fig leaf and just chuckles at you. “C’mon, it’s me,” he reminds you. “I’ve had that beast in my hands. Now let me see it so I can do salacious, unspeakable things to you. Here, I’ll even…”

He takes off his shades.

Bro Strider takes off his shades.

His eyes are beautiful, and you can’t tear your vision away. They’re like liquid gold and five types of fire, burning ardently with want. Want for you. Desire for you. Holy shit, that’s a little overwhelming. You have to take away your hands just so you can fist them in Bro’s sheets.

“That’s more like it.” Somehow his voice is heating up even more, a silky caress against your ears. He turns, follows you onto the bed, and though you can feel the weight and heat of him above you, he doesn’t crush you into the mattress when he kisses you, just glides his body smooth against yours – as smoothly as he can manage, given you’re still working with clothing and not quite skin to skin.

Once he ravishes your mouth, he kisses his way down, off the corner of your lips to your chin to the corner of your jaw to right below your earlobe, and you can’t help the little whimper stuck in your throat as he kisses his way down your neck, onto your collarbones, planting his lips in the divot where they meet. His hand works up under your shirt, pushing it up so he can see your chest and stomach, and he skips over the part still covered with cloth so he can continue moving down, down, ever down with his mouth.

It’s making your cock twitch with a need you didn’t think possible. His mouth is hot and wet and brings your pulse to the surface everyplace it touches. You’re writhing underneath him, trying to get closer, squirming with the pleasure building under your skin, and Bro rolls with it, planting his mouth on whatever you bring closest.

If this wasn’t so sexy, it would be ticklish, the way he kisses and licks along the trail of your hair, and then he smashes his face to your stomach and pushes his tongue into your navel and you have to bring up your hand to hug the back of his head close to you. He takes the hint, continuing down, down, leaving broad swaths of spit on your skin from where he licks you.

Oh shit. Ohhhhh shit. He’s between your legs and his mouth is on your hip and sucking against a vein and outlining the ridge of your bones through your skin and you are so throbbing hard right now because you can see what he’s doing to you and it’s good, so good. You want his mouth on every square inch of you so that it all burns alive just the same.

He continues with those sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as he gets closer to your groin, and he has to hear how every breath of yours is a moan now, because he brings his hand up to let it rest on the bed and gives you the opportunity to thread your fingers through his. It’s a sweet kind of intimacy, a hold on a lifeline while he drowns you under wave after wave of pleasure, especially when he starts nuzzling up the insides of your thighs from the backs of your knees.

You’re mesmerized with the sight of him, spreading your legs to accommodate him, and he rubs little circles into your thigh with his thumb as he comes back up, dangerously close to your cock. “Let me blow you,” he says breathlessly between kisses, practically nuzzling his cheek against your package. “Let me give you head.”

“You wanna what?” You couldn’t have heard that right. What in the world is so interesting and enthralling about you that Bro Strider can’t keep his hands off of you and wants to give you handjobs and now might wanna put his mouth on you?

“I wanna suck your dick,” he murmurs against your skin. You can feel the vibrations of his voice, and then you can feel his mouth, just at the base, pressing a sloppy little kiss there before he comes back up for air. You’re surprised at how good it feels, even once he pulls away and the air of the room cools his spit on your skin. “I wanna polish your knob.” With each filthy sentence that drops from his lips, you can see your boner twitch and throb. His mouth moves around, under your cock, his tongue teasing at the very base and threatening to touch your balls. This is so intimate and you feel completely at his mercy. “I wanna swallow your cock.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You’re gonna blow just from his dirty talk at this point. You hope he realizes.

He comes up for air, pulling himself away from you for long enough to stare you down. “Let me suck you off,” he says insistently, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Yes,” you tell him, the sound drawing out into a hiss. “Please, oh God—“

You weren’t expecting him to go at it quite so soon, or quite so enthusiastically. His tongue works in broad strokes from base to tip, base to tip, making your dick shine before he even has a chance to take you in his mouth. More of those sucking kisses land on the ridge on the underside, an especially long one at the especially sensitive spot right under the head, and then he’s tracing under your head with the tip of his tongue before –

“Oh my God, holy shit,” you have to say something or you’ll never get to tell him how good this feels. Your hand clenches in his, and he grips you just as hard back, giving you something to hold onto while he pleasures you. His thumb strokes over yours, just another sensation driving you mad, as he finally sinks his whole mouth down over your cock. He keeps his lips tight, licking you from the inside of his mouth, and you don’t even feel a hint of teeth, just a little surprise when you glide up along his hard palate, then his soft.

And he’s trying to take you even farther, shit, shit, he wasn’t kidding about having your cock in his throat, his mouth moves closer and closer to the base and you can feel tight wet heat clenching around your corona and his tongue sticking out to lick the base and you have no idea how he’s doing that but it feels fantastic, especially when he makes a little swallowing motion and practically squeezes drops of precum out of you and down his throat.

He pulls off as slowly as he went down, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, and there’s a blissful look in his half-closed eyes that you’ve never quite seen from him before. You need to keep your eyes open for this. You want to watch him while he blows you. “Holy shit, you actually like this,” you realize as he takes your dick in one hand and starts pressing the whole side of his face up against it.

“I’d do this all afternoon if you let me,” he says, and there’s a raw honesty in his voice that isn’t just hoarseness from having a cock up against his vocal cords.

“Kee—eeep going,” you sigh out, and he does, this time taking just the head into his mouth and working his tongue up against the most sensitive parts of your dick. He’s doing it so smoothly that you don’t even want to buck – he’s giving you exactly what feels best. It feels amazing. He swirls his tongue around the head, dipping into the slit, and you feel like your brain was just twirled around its axis and then exploded out into a thousand little shards of stars. You could swear your vision goes white for a second.

Bro keeps talking to you through all of this, through all the times when he isn’t trying to take all of your shaft into his mouth. You didn’t realize that getting a blowjob could be like this – you just thought he’d be bobbing up and down for a few minutes and then he’d jerk you off and let you come and that would be it. No, this is delicious, a pressure that builds up and then stays constant when he pulls away to tease at you with his mouth, then builds up even higher when he sinks down and nods so your head hits against his soft palate. “Fuck you taste so good,” he moans against your skin as he swipes his tongue over the head to catch your precum on his tongue.

How? you want to ask him. Why? Why are you doing this? Can’t you see I don’t deserve it? But it’s amazing, and he wants to give it to you, and that might be the most amazing feeling of all. He’s trying everything to make you feel good, first treating your dick like he’s riding it with his face, then licking along the shaft and tracing each pulsing vein. He even presses the whole thing up into your stomach using his mouth so he can nuzzle and lick and sloppily kiss at the underside, going down – “That’s my balls,” you say with a small little noise of alarm in the back of your throat.

He doesn’t let the one out of his mouth, just looks up at you with that piercing gaze, one of his eyebrows quirked up. You know exactly what he’d say if he didn’t have his mouth full of package: Whatcha gonna do about it? And the answer is nothing. Because as much as you’ve never thought about having a mouth there – why would anyone even want to put their mouth there, why why why – it feels really good. Especially good, given that this is Bro Strider and he’s making you melt with his mouth.

It’s too much pressure, though. Maybe some other time. Right now, you need him to make you come. “C’mon,” you tell him gently, touching the back of his head with a shaking hand. He gets the idea and licks his way back up, and your shaft pulses against his tongue when he moves his mouth to where it was. The way he sucks at the underside is almost like a blowjob in and of itself, and just when you want to thrust to get more sensation, Bro gives it to you. He seems to be waiting for something, though. Oh. You get it. The weight on the back of his head. He thinks you want to tell him what to do. “Keep going,” is all you say, petting at the hair just above his left ear.

You just rest your hand there, giving him a bit of comforting contact even as your other hand crushes his palm with the force of your grip. When he takes your cock in his mouth, he twists his head and swirls his tongue and it feels so good and it’s gonna be too much. But you hold back. You want this to last as long as he’ll let you let him. You don’t want it to end, because you’re sure he’ll never want to do this again. Eventually he lets you go so he can kiss at you again, and you’re so close to blowing but you’ll never let him know. “C’mon, John,” he mutters against your cock before starting to work on you again.

“Bro – unh – holy shit, Bro, I’m gonna –“ You’re breathless, dizzy from his pace, and you’re sure he’s going to pull you apart with just his mouth. And then you see. Somewhere in your blurry headspace, you pull your eyes back into focus and look – not just at your dick stretching out his lips, not just at the head of your cock pushing at the inside of his cheek, but past that, downwards, and holy shit Bro’s jerking himself off while he’s working on you. Fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, Bro getting off to just the taste of you, the throb of you against his tongue, the thrill of being able to do this to you. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna,” you gasp out, trying to warn him that it’s coming, before it trails off in a moan. “Fuuuuuuuuuck…”

He pulls off just before you start to come, still nuzzling your cock with an absurd amount of affection. When you blow, it’s on his face, thick pulses of cum marking the bridge of his nose and the ridge of his cheekbone and the flare of his nostril and the curve of his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth. And with the blissed-out look on his face and the groan you can nearly feel coming from his chest, you can tell he’s coming too, his eyelashes fluttering and the muscles in his arm working to jerk himself through it. Through your own pulse hammering hard in your ears, you could swear he says your name, his mouth falling open in an incredulous O while he makes a soft little noise of satisfaction.

You’re shaking. He just completely drained you. You know you should reach over to his nightstand, hand him a tissue so he can wipe off his face, but – oh my God, that’s filthy. That’s filthy and perverted and you can’t keep your eyes off of it – he has his fistful of his own cum from jacking himself off and he just – his tongue comes out and swipes along his palm to get all of it in his mouth, and then his adam’s apple works in a swallow, “Bro oh my God” what is he doing and why is it turning you on so much?

After he’s done licking his hand clean, he starts swiping off your cum from his face, sucking it off of his thumb and his fingers and looking like he doesn’t even notice you as he fucking eats your cum. Bro Strider is fucking eating your cum and treating it like it’s normal and it’s the most perverted thing you’ve ever seen and you’re not sure you’ve ever been more turned on in your life. “Told you you taste good,” is all he says before he swirls his tongue around his thumb, just like he was swirling it around the head of your dick.

With a plaintive little cry, you shut your eyes and let the feeling wash over you. Your cock tries to perform but only ends up sending a pathetic little dribble of cum along your stomach. Bro’s there to lick that up, too, lapping at you like a kitty at the cream until your skin is cleaned. Every one of your nerve endings is frazzled, trying to do a full-body impersonation of what TV static must feel like, and belatedly you realize you’re twitching with the force of it.

Bro crawls up your body, and this time he does crush his against yours, the weight of it something to pin you down so you don’t dissolve or float away. You clutch onto him as you ride out your high, and he kisses your neck, all the way up to your face, before he’s not inches away from your mouth. “Let me kiss you.”

“Ew, swallow first!” And, to your surprise, he actually does what you say, his throat working, and then it’s not him kissing you, it’s you kissing him. You don’t give a shit about the flavor. Underneath, he’s still Bro. Just Bro Strider. And for some reason, he’s enthralled by you.

One of these days, you’ll have to show him how much you love him, too.


	2. Heartbeats

Bro’s done a lot of things to you, but you haven’t really had the chance to return the favor.

It starts like it always does, you closing the door quietly behind you while he takes his headphones off, shuts his computer down. Then he’s in front of you, wrapping his arms around you, and when he kisses you, you feel like you’re floating on air. Given that you’ve just mysteriously grown three inches, it might also be literally true. But it’s soft and it’s slow, Bro cupping your face in both hands and sighing out hard through his nose while he traces your lips with the point of his tongue, and you breathe him in as you open your mouth to him.

He walks backwards, taking you with him, and then you’re nearly falling onto his bed, landing in his lap with your arms around his shoulders. Bro’s hands move from your face, down your neck, shoulders, sides, and rest with a possessive heat on your hips, and you know your breath has to be hitching in your throat with the way you can hear him hum, just a little bit, just enough. That familiar heat starts under your skin, your heart trying to jump into your throat and drop out through your stomach all at once, and Bro’s only making it worse, kissing you harder, practically rocking his hips up into yours already.

You kiss him and you kiss him and you kiss him, breathing faster, getting harder, and you know he has to be affected by this as much as you are. Slowly—and hopefully he doesn’t notice—you slip one of your hands down from his shoulders, trailing down his front before you plant it at his crotch and feel. Once you find him already hard against his hip, you squeeze, and the little “mm” that comes out of his mouth makes it totally worth it. You try again, framing his cock through his jeans with your palm, and his mouth falls away from yours for long enough so he can sigh out.

Good, then. What you’re doing is good and okay. How does he usually do this? He teases you for a little bit, then gets your jeans open and handles you through your boxers, then gets his hand inside so you can be skin-to-skin while he jacks you off. Twice now he’s laid you down on the bed and taken your pants off and given you a blowjob, but it’s been only twice in the, what, two months since you started surreptitiously meeting like this. Maybe your relationship’s accelerating a little bit, but it’s not faster than you want, even though you have a feeling Bro’s pitying you more than you want and taking it painstakingly slow from his end.

You take your hand away, planting it on his hip instead, and purposefully grind down onto his lap. Bro’s hands on your hips get more insistent, the grip bruising hard, and you can feel the pads of his fingertips digging in through the fabric of your shirt. He doesn’t move you, but you know what he wants, and so you grind down onto him again. “Jesus Christ, John,” he grits out, and you can see his throat working in a swallow when you do it yet again.

And again. And again. Each little roll is slow, but you know it’s getting him harder, because you can feel him straining against his jeans and longing to drive up into you. His self-control’s made his spine go rigid, and he’s breathing faster now. “Let me,” you say quietly. For a split-second, you’re afraid you’re going to lose your balance and go toppling backwards when you take your arm away from where you were clinging onto Bro’s shoulders, but you need both hands so you can unbutton his jeans. You’re not quite as talented as he is.

He beats you to it, though, taking one of his hands off of you so he can help you get in his pants. It’s a little awkward, but with his knowledgeable fingers and your fumbling hand, the two of you eventually get his fly open. You rest your forehead on his shoulder so you can see what your hands are doing, but your hand disappears into his black jeans as you search and seek and then his cock is in your hand, long and thick and hot, and you press a long stroke against it through the fabric of his boxers. “Holy shit,” Bro says, his hands sliding up from your hips to frame the bottom of your ribcage, and he holds you so hard you wonder if you’re hurting him.

Just in case he was wondering about your intentions, you press a chaste little kiss to the side of his neck and murmur quietly, “Good?”

“Real fuckin’ good,” Bro reassures you. Once the words tumble from his lips, you actually grasp around him, jacking him off through the fabric, and he moans a little. Who would have ever imagined that Bro Strider would be moaning beneath you because of what you were doing to his cock?

Time to up the ante a little bit, then. You take your hand away, but only to slip it between his underwear and his skin, delving below his waistband to touch him, actually touch him. Fuck, and he’s larger than you are, even through your odd reverse upside-down grip you can tell that much, even if he wasn’t girthier he’d definitely be longer. There’s a bite of something cold up against the pulse point in your wrist when you give him a long stroke, and when you pull up, you realize what it is. “Holy shit, Bro, what the hell?”

At least Bro seems pretty nonplussed by your reaction. “Wanna see it?” he offers. He has to get your thighs to unclench from around his hips, but once he spreads your legs, he pulls down his jeans and his boxers, and once his cock springs free, you decide you’ve never seen anything more gorgeous or intimidating in your life. There’s a nest of ginger pubes around the base, and then it springs up, nearly pulsing from want of contact. The shaft has a prominent vein on the underside, and you find yourself wanting to take his pulse, but then your eyes wander up, to the scar separating dark skin from light, and then there’s the flushed, swollen head of his cock.

Not just that, though. Gleaming in the afternoon sunlight is a ring that passes through—through!—his cock, coming out through the slit and then looping around underneath to pass through his shaft just under the head of his cock. “You have your dick pierced.” Your voice sounds a little more freaked out than you intended.

“Yeah,” he tells you, but he doesn’t mock you or anything. In fact, even with his cock showing, he holds you close again, pressing your chests together so you can feel his heartbeat hammering up against your own when he kisses your ear, then sucks on your earlobe. “Called a Prince Albert. You can touch it.”

Now that you see it, though, you’re kind of afraid to. Still, you try anyway, holding his dick in your hand just like you had, but you can feel the piercing rubbing up against the heel of your hand and moving and fuck you can’t even imagine what that’s doing to him because trying to think about it makes you want to cross your legs forever. “It doesn’t hurt or anything?”

“Course not.” One of his large, hot hands cups around yours, leather-clad palm nestling against the back of your hand, and he pulls your grip up so you can actually touch his piercing and move it under his skin. He shows you how, and you can feel it as well as see it, so you know that’s what he wants when you try it on your own. “Fuck that feels good,” he says savagely when you do it again, and when you move the piercing back to where you found it, there’s a bead of precum at his slit along with the piercing.

“You like that?” You know he does, you just want to keep hearing him talk. His voice sounds so amazing when he’s breathless like this, especially since it’s because of you.

When you close your hand around his dick in a soft grip and start pumping his shaft, he moves with you, pushing his hips into your hand before he recognizes his own impatience and holds back again. “God _damn_ ,” he mutters, and his teeth close down on the sensitive skin under your ear, sucking at you until there’s no way he’s not going to be leaving a mark.

Whatever. You’ll find a way to hide it. Even if Dave sees it, you can just tell him it was from making out—you don’t have to say it was from making out with his brother. “Keep talking to me,” you tell Bro, your voice small. You feel a little more confident now, so you grip him a little firmer, start in on a pace that you yourself would enjoy if it were someone else’s hand on you.

Which, if Bro has his way, is just about to happen. “That’s good—that’s real good, kid,” he says low into your ear, and you shiver as his own hand works its way inside your pants to work on your cock the same way. He leads you with his pace, and you follow along with him, not wanting to go any farther with him than he wants.

It’s about to get out of hand if he doesn’t stop, though, and you don’t want this to be over. “Bro—oh,” comes out in a breathy little moan. “Bro, stop, I’m gonna blow if you do that…”

He teases you with a brush of the pad of his thumb against your frenum, then over your slit, and when he draws his hand away from you, he darts his tongue out of his mouth to lick the mess on his finger. Perverted bastard. “I want you to do something for me,” he tells you, soft and low, as he leaves a series of sucking kisses down your throat.

“Whhhh—hat?” It’s so easy for him to break your concentration. You’d blame your inexperience, but he seems to like that about you. “What do you want?”

You can feel his breath curling around your ear when he whispers it to you, lips barely ghosting against the shell of it. “Blow me.”

“Oh.” Your hand pauses from where you were jacking him off. “I—“ Your mouth is watering; you lick your lips to fix it, and somehow that doesn’t help. “Okay.” Hopefully he can tell how nervous you are, how much you really, really don’t know what to do or what you’re doing.

“It’s okay,” and maybe he could tell how much you were holding back, because with the heat of one soothing hand, he saps all the trembling from your spine. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I was just sayin’ what I want.”

“No.” John Brotherfucking Egbert does not back down from a challenge. You’ve been looking for a way to give back what he gave you, and this… even if you don’t know how, you can at least try. “I’ll do it.”

But when you try to push back on his shoulders to get him to lie back on the bed, he stops you, grabbing your wrists in his hands. Wow. That feels amazing, his thumbs on your pulse points like that. “Down, boy.” Then you realize he means it literally. “On the floor—it’ll be better, trust me.”

It’s a little awkward when you climb out of his lap to kneel on the floor in front of him, but he spreads his knees to accommodate you. “I, uh,” you start, but you know his pants have to come off. As you sink down, you grab at the belt line of his jeans, the waistband of his boxers, and start tugging down. To your surprise, he actually accommodates you, kicking off his shoes and helping you shimmy everything down his hips and thighs. Once you work his clothes off his ankles, you pull his socks off, too. Nothing is more unsexy than a guy keeping his socks on during sex. Once Bro’s naked from the waist down, though, you’re kind of lost on what to do.

Bro can probably see the look on your face, though, the “what now?” expression where you’re totally clueless. “Don’t worry,” he says, tucking your hair behind the earpiece of your glasses. “I’ll tell you what to do. Just come on up here and start licking at it, you know how to—shit, John…” Well. That’s rewarding. The second you swipe at him with the flat of your tongue, he devolves into sudden-onset Tourette’s syndrome.

You don’t quite know what you’re doing, but you can’t go wrong with this, especially since he’s reacting this way. Tracing his vein with the point of your tongue gets him to ball his hands into fists on the edge of the mattress; you’d rest yours on his, but you’re not sure you’re going to be good enough to go completely hands-free. Out of embarrassment, you hide your face in his thigh, then start kissing your way up. You’re about to suck a dick. What if you’re not good at it? What if you can’t get Bro off like he can get you off? Is he still going to want to do this if you suck at everything? Does he really like your inexperience that much?

“John,” you can hear him moan insistently above you. “I need your mouth on my cock, c’mon, get up here, yeah, lick it,” and you get your tongue out of your mouth just enough to touch where the piercing comes out under the head of his cock. To keep him steady, you grasp at the base with one hand and hold his cock as you trace under the flare of his corona with the point of your tongue. “Fuck, c’mon, c’mon,” he keeps muttering.

You finally oblige and kiss the very tip, then open your mouth and take him inside. This is stretching your jaw more than you thought it would. You feel like your chin’s about to touch your throat with how wide you have to open your mouth to keep your teeth away from Bro’s cock. Once his head is past your lips, though, you don’t know what to do. It’s so much to concentrate on all at once—how does he keep everything straight, keep his teeth away and hollow his cheeks and lick at your frenum from the inside of his mouth all at the same time? Almost as soon as you sink down, you pull off, not just because you’re shy but because you’re sure you won’t live up to expectations. Instead, you leave a little flurry of sucking kisses down his shaft. “Sorry,” you murmur between each one.

“No, that was good, that was great, _fuck_ ,” he sighs out when you go to do it again. This time you can take a little more of him, guiding him with your tongue so that his head hits the roof of your mouth, the odd scrape of something solid nudging against your soft palate. It’s hard to hear like this, because your ears keep shutting off with your mouth this far open and full, but you can still hear him, especially when he frames your face with his hands. “Just like that,” he mutters, and when you look up as much as you can, you can see him smiling down at you—Bro, who never smiles.

He’s coddling you, but you don’t care. With the way he runs his hands through your hair, you can feel a tingle that starts at your scalp and ends at the soles of your feet. The taste of him in your mouth is… strong, but not unpleasant: salty, like skin, and with a tang that tastes like the inside of his mouth, plus a heady sort of musk that leaves you feeling dizzy whenever you nod your head. It’s just that he’s so big, leaving your jaw stretched open. Working on him makes it hard for you to breathe, too. You’re just at the point of touching his piercing and moving it with your tongue while he’s still in your mouth when you have to drop him just to catch a breath. “I’m sorry, I blow at this.”

“And you were doing so good, too,” Bro tells you. He brings his thumb down to stroke at your cheekbone, and it actually makes you feel like less of a failure. “Take it slow. Just watch your teeth, ‘kay?”

You try to remember what he did to you last time that made you feel so good. Maybe that thing where you suck at his skin while you move your mouth over him? That way you’re not so scared that you’re gonna catch him with your buck teeth. You can still see his hands, and when you do that, purse your lips and plant one long, sucking, moving kiss along the underside of his cock, he balls them into white-knuckled fists. “Holy shit, John, how in the unholy fuck,” he’s babbling over you, and you can tell it’s all he can do not to reach forward and force you to open your mouth and shove himself inside.

Instead, you do it before he can. It gets easier every time you try it; now you maybe have an inch and a half, two inches of that fucking monster in your mouth. You’re not so scared to flick at his piercing, because you know it won’t hurt him. When you hollow your cheeks and suck, it gets harder to listen to Bro’s reactions, but given what you _can_ hear, it feels fantastic on his end. “Ohh, yeah, just like that, keep, yeah, that, fuck, John, _more_ …”

You can see the muscles in his hips twitching as he holds himself back. You’re not drawing this out on purpose, and you want to apologize for edging him, but with all the words involuntarily dropping from his lips, you want this to last for a while longer. You draw off, sink back down, swirl your tongue around the head a few times before you gently prod the tip against his slit, and that draws an entirely new breed of curses out of Bro’s mouth. “Shit, you’re a fucking natural, goddamn, look at you, you’re loving this, aren’t you?”

It’s not bad. What’s great about it is his reactions. And so you nod, with your mouth still surrounding him, and he lets out a little garbled moan as you change the pressure around his cock. After one last suck, you look up at him. You know you have to look pornographic right now, lips flushed and glossy with your own spit, glasses a little askew on your face, hair rumpled from where he keeps massaging at the top of your head while you do this. “Can you just… stay still for a minute? I wanna see something.”

Bro nods down at you tersely. You wonder how close he is to actually blowing. But you have to see. You need to see. And so you take him into your mouth, first just the head, then your tight lips moving down his shaft, until you’re taking more, more of him in your mouth, until his piercing hits against the back of your mouth and you feel like you need to drop him and cough. But it gets better after a little bit, and you tell yourself you can go without breathing for a moment just so you can try this.

You sink down, even further down, until your lips are most of the way down Bro’s cock and the tip is nudging against the sphincter at the back of your throat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” is the mantra coming out of Bro’s mouth, and you know you have to be doing something right if the tension in his thighs is anything to go by.

Still, you can’t hold him there forever. You can, however, suck at him purposefully as you draw off. One more thing to try before you stop messing around and start actually trying to get him off. He did this for you, so you can do this for him, right? You trail your tongue down his dick, then further down, until you’re actually—this is so gross to think about—tonguing at his sac, the point tracing his raphe. It could be worse, you remind yourself. They could be pendulous and huge, but no, Bro actually has a pretty attractive package. You mouth at it and Bro actually leaves off with the curse words, moaning your name instead. “John…”

That’s the tone of ‘stop fucking around.’ There’s enough of your spit on Bro’s cock that you can start moving your hand on it and jacking him off. While you do that, you let your mouth sink over his head, sucking just a little but mostly using your tongue to move around the metal ring and lap up his precum. Bro can’t seem to help it now, but when he grabs your head, he doesn’t force you to move; no, he’s just trying to get a handle on something, anything, and it means that his fists grab your hair and pull, hard. “Shit, John, just like that, just a little more, nngh, don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop…”

God, and the way he says your name like that makes a moan rise in your chest, and your cock pulses in appreciation. Have you been hard the entire time you’ve been doing this? When did you start pressing on yourself through your pants? But you jack him off and suck at him and you feel a sense of accomplishment when he starts muttering at you. “John. John, pull off, I’m gonna—“

You need to catch your breath anyway. “Huh?” You still work your hand on him, though, because he’s close; you can feel it in the throb of his cock that he’s ready to blow.

“John,” he says, the sound a soft, wondrous moan, and then he’s pulsing, sticky strings of cum landing on your face and in your open mouth to land on your tongue and painting your glasses with jizz. The taste of him now is acrid and bitter, but this is your reward, you suppose. It’s not really that bad, just weird. You could swallow if he makes you, but you’d really rather not.

You hold his spunk in your mouth, not sure what to do with it, but then Bro yanks you up off the floor with his fists in the neck of your shirt so you’re in his lap again. You’re dizzy from the sudden movement, and it doesn’t get any better when Bro absolutely smashes his mouth to yours, not seeming to care that he’s nuzzling his face against one splattered with his own release. Oh, fuck, he did that thing that other time, though, where he actually—and that’s what he’s doing now, you realize, drawing the cum out of your mouth and swallowing it himself before he starts to lick your face. “Fuck, John, you’re a disaster, you should see yourself, holy _shit_ ,” and the way he looks at you, half-lidded, lets you know you did something right.

Even in his half-blissed state, Bro still seems to understand that you’re not quite done yet. Now that you’re back in his lap, he has to be able to feel how hard you are. One of his hands comes down to cup you, just the slightest bit, and even that pressure leaves you feeling like you’re about to blow. “Bro, I gotta,” is all you have to tell him.

He undoes the front of your jeans with only one hand, and he’s not even done before you’re tipping forward shamelessly, looking for something to rut up against. Then he gives you his hand, slips it between your boxers and your skin, and when he grips your cock all you have to do is thrust a few times against the leather of his gloves and then you’re gone, maybe saying his name but maybe just a vowel sound leaving your throat as you blow over the top of his hand.

It leaves both of you breathing hard and absolutely filthy. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, I ruined your gloves, didn’t I, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry,” you start babbling.

“Calm down, kid,” he says, but it’s not until he starts petting at your hair that you know it’s okay that you did that. “I ruined your glasses.”

“Yeah, but I can clean my glasses!” you point out. Speaking of, you should probably do that. You yank the frames off of your face, draw up the bottom hem of your shirt, and start rubbing at the lenses, trying to sop up the cum and get rid of any smears.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. I got more where these came from.” While you’re cleaning your things, you can hear the snapping sound as Bro undoes the backs of his gloves to take them off. Oh, shit, wait. Bro’s taking off his gloves for you. And you just took off your glasses for him.

You both seem to realize it at the same time, because his hand—his bare hand—comes to cup at your chin, drawing your eyes up until—he’s not wearing his shades, oh, oh shit, you’re going to drown in gold and dissolve at the softness of his palm.

He kisses you then, and you can’t help smiling against his mouth. You feel a little less naked with him covering you.


	3. Skin

“Where’s Dave?”

“Gone for the weekend. Seattle. College visit.”

“Talk about ironic,” you mutter, pulling your sweatshirt off of your head. There’s no need for it here in Houston, but you’re dressed for Washington state weather; cold still clings to your clothes, even though traveling by transportalizer warmed you up considerably.

Or maybe it was because you were thinking of why you were traveling.

Bro brings you into his arms, holds you close, takes a deep breath from the cotton of your shirt, leaves his lips in a hot print across the skin of your neck. “Missed you,” you mumble into his shoulder.

“Missed you too, kid.” This close, you can feel his breathing, and you count the seconds between you in heartbeats. Bro doesn’t seem to want to let go, and neither do you. Five days should not have felt so unnaturally long to go without seeing him.

You’re still trying to keep this a secret from Dave, though. That means coming around at unsuspicious times, for unsuspicious reasons, but now? Now it’s Friday afternoon, and your dad thinks you’re sleeping over at Dave’s, and Bro told you Dave was going to be gone, and all of your nerve endings are thrumming at the possibilities spread out before you.

It still feels wrong when Bro kisses you in surroundings that are not his bedroom, but he leans down all the same and captures your mouth with his, sliding his tongue effortlessly into your mouth and humming a little at the taste. “Sorry,” he says when he barely pulls back, pressing a kiss into the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t wait.”

Your hands tangle into his hair, his ridiculous anime white-blond hair, and you keep him from retreating too far away from you. “Don’t stop.”

“Good answer.” This time, he delves farther, kisses deeper, and a little sound escapes from your mouth which he just as quickly devours with his. The more you kiss him, the more you feel like you’re floating on air, until Bro palms roughly at your ass to pull you flush with him and keep you closer to the ground. You can’t help it. He seems to think it’s funny, though, if the chuckle he lets out is any indication. “We got all weekend, what’s the rush?”

“Want you now.” Your voice is ragged and harsh; you almost don’t recognize yourself. But you kiss him again, and again, and again, until his hands move from your ass down your thighs to encourage you to straddle his waist. Locking your ankles behind his back, he holds you there for a moment before he backs you into a wall, and a choked moan comes out of your throat as he crushes the air out of you with the insistency of his body moving against yours.

“Can’t even wait to get to my room, huh?” Bro mutters in your ear, his hot breath warming the shell of it before his mouth captures your earlobe. “Right here, on the futon?”

“It’s like a bed,” you point out, but it’s hard to complain about anything, much less form words, when Bro runs the flat of his teeth against your throat. “C’mon, I just—ahhhh…”

You can feel Bro’s grin against your neck; his hands come up to possessively frame your sides, and you bring your arms around his shoulders to hold on for dear life. “You really can’t wait, can you.” For emphasis, he drags one of his palms down, leaving a path of heat before he finds the bulge in your jeans and starts to rub at it, just slightly, just enough.

When you throw your head back, your skull knocks, hard, against the wall. “You’re a bastard.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” His hand gooses you again, and then it’s not the wall supporting you any more; instead, gravity pulls you down, your back against the shitty cotton-stuffed mattress-cushion of the futon, and Bro’s weight is over you, delicious pressure making you feel like you’re about to melt. “Fuck, John, you’re so—“

He never finishes that sentence. The two of you end up kissing. Just kissing. It’s nice, if a bit frustrating, and meanwhile, you grow harder by the second. Bro’s hands move, slow but pressured, along your body over your clothes, and you wish you could just will them away without having to be naked, because you want his touch along your bare skin but you don’t want him to see you so vulnerable. You try to give back what you get, sliding your tongue against his, nipping at his lip, licking his teeth, but when you try to touch him like he’s touching you, your hands get inside the back of his shirt and no further before you start scratching at his spine in an attempt to show him how good it feels.

Somehow, you manage to get him to lift his arms so you can get his shirt off, and only once he’s nude from the waist-up do you realize that you’ve never seen him shirtless before. “Shit,” you whistle between your teeth, and you don’t know where to put your hands first, whether you just want to palm at the muscles of his arms and chest and abs or if you want to ghost your fingertips into the crevices between, trace them under his skin.

The pad of your thumb ghosts over one of his nipples, and Bro makes a harsh gasp-sigh into your mouth. You love making him breathless like that—you do it again, and this time there’s more of a noise behind it. To make sure he’s not being outdone, he cups his hand around your boner through your pants and starts half-jacking you off through the fabric, making your pulse thud in your ears. “Stop me,” Bro says against your teeth, and you know the second half of that sentence: if this isn’t what you want, stop me now, before this gets out of hand.

“Fuck no.” You hope he can feel your smile against his mouth. For all he talks about you being so eager, he’s just as greedy to get in your pants, to touch and fondle and squeeze and lick and kiss and suck, and there he goes again, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and his mouth hanging half-open in wonder as you gently rake your nails down his chest while he undoes your belt. Fuck, and he doesn’t even have the patience to get your clothes all the way off, just undoes your fly and reaches past your waistband into your boxers and grasps, and you push into his hand as you twist his nipples.

“John,” he says, and you’re not even sure if he knows he’s saying it, “JohnJohnJohn,” and he doesn’t seem to know what he wants to grab first, rolling your balls in his palm before his fingers grip your shaft, then digging his fingertips into your bare ass. “John,” and this time he says it into your mouth, a shiver running down your spine as you can taste how his tongue holds the syllable, “fuck, fuck, I want, get your pants off…”

When he says it like that, of course you’re going to oblige. He pulls back enough to yank down on the ankles of your jeans, and then you’re naked from the waist-down, pulling Bro back on top of you to cover your nakedness. You try to rut up but the chafe of your cock against the denim of his jeans is unbearable; when you look down, you’ve left a sticky swipe of precum shining against black fabric. He gets it, though, and starts to jack you off, slow and sure with just enough pressure to tease, “mmh that’s good.”

“John,” and you know he’s gonna start talking dirty to you, he has a filthy mouth and you never want him to shut up, ever, it’s so great how it makes your stomach drop out and your face heat up and when he mumbles these things against your lips you feel like you’re stealing the words from his throat. “John, I wanna—fuck, get my mouth all over you, suck hickies on your thighs, write my name on your dick with my tongue, eat you out, get you wet and loose and sloppy ‘til you come on my face—“

“Bro, wait, what the fuck,” and you have to pull sharply on his hair to get his face out of yours, circling strong fingers around his wrist to make him stop jacking you off. “Did you just seriously say—“

“—that I wanna fuck your ass open with my tongue.” How can he say that so nonchalantly?

“Okay, no, that is—disgusting, Bro, stop, I’m trying to talk to you,” because it’s very hard to hold a conversation with him when he’s pressing his chest into yours and trying to nuzzle against your neck. “Dude, just because you have this—oral—thing, doesn’t mean you should do that, I mean, that’s gross!”

“Just skin,” he mumbles, shrugging.

Is it just you, or is his face turning a little pink? “You’ve done that before?”

He jerks his head in a stiff nod. Okay, he’s definitely embarrassed. “Other people seem to like it.” His words are so quiet, so under his breath, that it takes you a moment to discern what he’s saying. “Relaxes ‘em. Makes ‘em feel good. You don’t have to let me, I was just—saying—things.”

“But you really wanna do that.” He nods. “To me.” He nods again, the motion getting more fluid the more he does it. “Because you think it’ll feel good?”

“Oh, I know it’ll feel good,” and there’s the Bro you know, half-menacing and full-sexy as he narrates in your ear what he wants to do to you. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, gonna make you beg, beg for it, beg to come…”

It’s all you can do to grab onto his shoulders, scratching him as he moves down your body. With one hand, he pushes up your shirt so he can bite and kiss and suck his way down your chest; with the other, he grasps the back of one of your thighs, encourages you to get your knee up and rest your foot on the futon. You’d feel embarrassed at being held so open, but Bro’s heat is still between your legs, and his mouth makes you feel like you’re on fire every place it touches. Even when he tongues into your navel, you find it sexy instead of silly. And then, with a little swoop in your stomach that makes your heart leap into your throat, you realize that’s what his tongue’s gonna be doing someplace else, too.

Bro makes it hard for you to think, though. It’s a good thing. “Fuck, you have perfect skin, I just wanna—I wanna bruise it, want you to feel it when I’m not there, god…” He sinks his teeth into your hip and it hurts just right, and when he sucks you want to cry out with the feel of it. When he hears you choke down the sounds, he stops his lamprey eel impression—there’s already a purpling hickie on your hipbone and it looks so good—and he stares up at you, finally taking off his shades. “Ain’t nobody home, kid, you scream as loud as you want.”

“Oh,” you say softly. Then his mouth descends again, getting closer to your groin, and as he bites and sucks another mark into your skin you gently thread your fingers through his hair, making it stand on end—well, more than usual. “Fuck,” you let out experimentally. It sounds so wrong. Like you’re forcing it. Then Bro pulls back and tongues at the teeth marks he just left, and you let out a shaky sigh with more than a little bit of a moan.

“C’mon,” Bro says into the inside of your thigh, and you love the way his breath feels against your body, “I know you can do better than that.”

“Maybe you should try harder to make me scre—yeah, oh, oh my God,” he alternates between sinking his teeth in like he’s going to devour you and soothing his marks with his tongue, and you’re willing to bet that your thigh is turning purple and it’s going to ache against the seam of your jeans and you want it to, oh God do you want it to.

“That’s more like it.” But he’s not mean about it. In fact, he seems to be way too proud of himself for getting you to make noise, because when you look down, he’s smiling up at you, bright and genuine and true. “You like having my mouth on you?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. Whenever you’re with Bro, you feel like you’re underwater, can’t find the surface, drowning and only every so often can you surface for air. But if he’s the one pulling you under, you’ll willingly drown. Even your hearing feels like you’re in the ocean, everything dulled except for your heartbeats in your ears.

He presses his thumb into the line of bruises he just left, and it’s such a good, dull ache that you never want it to end. Then his hand circles under your thigh, pushing this leg up, too. “Do me a favor. Hold onto this, right here.” You’re so dazed that he has to actually take your hand and wrap it around where his was. Your knee’s up to your chest, and you’ve never felt more open, more exposed, oh God he’s going to see—

But Bro moves up your body, absurdly kissing at the instep of your foot before his mouth comes down on yours again. You drink him in, let him push his tongue into your mouth, because you want to kiss him, want to hold him here, don’t want to think about where his mouth is about to go, don’t want to kiss him after. His hand comes around your dick in a perfect grip, pumping once, twice, again, slowly, so slowly, and you feel like you’re going to burn alive. “Good,” he pulls out of your mouth.

“About to get better.” The heat of his body still covers you even as he moves south, making you feel less exposed. It’s Bro. It’s only Bro. “Keep talkin’ to me, kid, wanna know how you’re doin’ up there.”

You mean to chide him for treating you like a child, but it doesn’t quite come out that way. “Okay, oka—oh, oh yes, shit!” His cheek nuzzles against the inside of your unbruised thigh, but his mouth, his mouth is on your cock, painting long stripes of spit as he slicks you up, and that’s almost as good as when he sinks his lips down over you—no, better, because now he moves even further south, and you feel a surge in your gut when he actually—gladly—takes one of your balls in his mouth and rolls it with his tongue. “Shit, Bro, oh shit oh shit oh shit…”

“Love it when you fall apart for me,” he mutters to your taint, because that’s where his tongue’s going next, past your sac to trace your raphe, and now you understand why you’re holding your one leg back, because he wants access with his mouth and he wants it now. Of course, he’s taking his goddamn time about it, and you want to tell him to hurry up, start already, not to keep you waiting, and then—

“Whoa.”

“Hey, don’t startle on me, kid, you were doing so well.” The point of his tongue hadn’t even slipped back yet—he’d only breathed on it and you were already freaking out. “If you don’t—want this, I mean, I could fuck you open with my fingers but that ain’t exactly my plan here.”

“No, I’m just freaking out, come on, Bro, that’s my butt—“

“I am going to make your butt fucking quiver,” he says, in that low, seductive, sinful voice, but the way he’s waggling his eyebrows actually gets you to laugh a little. You’re still nervous, but you’ll get over it, you have to get over it.

You hold your knee up with your elbow and try to watch him as he does this, but then—then he just breathes, breathes on that sensitive skin, and “God damn” you may be the Heir of Breath but you never thought you’d fall apart just from this. “Bro, don’t fuck around with me, just—ahh!”

He goes slowly, glacially slowly, moving the flat of his wet, hot tongue a millimeter at a time as he swipes from your sacrum to your perineum. When he draws back, the cool air of the room feels like hell where you’re wet, and you want nothing more than to have his mouth back on you again. But, you realize, he’s getting his tongue wet again, laving you with his spittle so that the sandpaper of his tongue isn’t so rough. Oh, but it’s so hot, searing hot, and you can feel every articulation in his muscle when he does this. “Talk to me,” he says, low and husky, right into your balls.

“Bro, oh my God, it feels fucking—ohGod. OhmyfuckingGod.” Because now it’s not just him lapping at you—he plants his mouth right over, and just—licks. Over and over and over, and over, and over, and you’re still never going to get used to this because it feels too damn good not to treat it as an extraordinary occurrence. With each movement of his tongue he presses against your hole just that little bit, and though you’re not about to open like a magic flower for him, you can definitely feel yourself relaxing into the sensations. “Bro fuck oh my God fuck fuck me!”

With every movement of his tongue, you can see his cheekbones in sharp relief as he lets his jaw go so he can really work on you. Does he have a Gene Simmons tongue? It feels like it goes on forfuckingever, so many nerve endings amplifying the sensations. “Don’t say that,” he says into one of your asscheeks, playfully scraping his teeth along the curve of your rear.

“No, I didn’t mean—fuck, Bro, c’mon, oh, oh God, yes, that, oh my God…” You have no idea where he learned to do that and you don’t really have a desire to find out. The point of his tongue moves in slow, lazy circles just far enough away from your entrance that you want him to just get to it already, but slow, so slow, and you feel like you’re getting dizzy as your mind traces the motions of his mouth. And once he swirls around, then he traces other symbols, figure-eights and infinities and something you suspect might be the alphabet, but what matters is that it’s never the same thing twice.

Bro occasionally has to come up for air, but his hand grips your ass so hard you swear you’ll have marks. “Wanna get inside,” he moans—oh, God, he’s getting hard from this, you know from experience. “Let me fuck you open with my tongue, I wanna—“

You can’t believe you’re saying this. “Please, you gotta, I wanna,” you babble, and just as much as you’re sure he’s hard from this, both of you can see your dick, swollen and thick and dripping precum and throbbing from lack of attention.

“Shh. Relax.” Is he the fucking Butthole Whisperer or something? But then the point of his tongue traces that slow circle again, except it’s not a circle, it’s a spiral, the touch getting ever closer to your actual entrance.

Then he presses, “oh,” and he doesn’t give up, “ooh,” and it’s gentle and it’s slow and you can’t help it when you relax and then “ohfuckJesusweptBro. Bro!” His tongue—his fucking tongue—inside you, and with your free hand you reach down and fist a handful of Bro’s hair.

He takes it as a bad sign. “Too much?”

“Don’t stop,” and when your voice comes out it’s dark and gritty and by the look on his face he likes it, he actually fucking likes it when you say shit like that, or at least didn’t want to stop doing what he was doing. His mouth gets back on you, and his tongue presses, more, just a little more, and you don’t quite realize because it’s so gradual but he’s breaching you, entering, fuck, the tip of his tongue past that first ring of muscle and pushing up against something a little further in you, “fuck, fuck!”

And he just doesn’t stop, you love that about him, he knows you and he knows your body and he knows your cues and though you’re sure you’re red from the tips of your ears to the tops of your shoulders he keeps going, keeps pushing, but it never hurts and you’re not sure how, never hurts and he never goes too fast and he never does anything you don’t like, never ever, and then his tongue is fucking in, inside, wiggling in slow motions and slicking up your entrance and encouraging you to relax for him, to let him do this, and fuck do you let him, you’d let him do most anything to you.

He has to come up for air eventually, because his nose is pressed into your taint and you haven’t seen his chest rise or fall, but he’s been down there for—minutes? hours?—and never stopped. “Bro oh my God why did you stop I need it I need you to,” comes tumbling out of your mouth, out of your volition, and yes you can feel your hole clench around a tongue that isn’t there and wondering why it isn’t being opened still.

“Jack yourself off,” Bro tells you breathlessly. “Want you to come with my tongue in your ass.”

“If you say it like that,” you mean to tease, but that is definitely not a teasing tone, that is a husky lust-filled moan, and he delves in again, this time not just pushing with his tongue but sucking with pressure from inside his mouth, and you’re falling apart, you need to, you let go of Bro’s hair and rub your palm in the pre at the head of your dick to lube your hand and grip and stroke, and stroke, and stroke, and every time Bro flicks his tongue you flick your wrist, and—

Fuck, you knew it, you can see the muscle of his shoulder just barely working, and if you trace the movement of his muscles you can see his whole arm, he’s jerking it too, jerking it just to doing this to you, fuck, probably the taste of you, and while he does that he loosens his mouth and pants against your hole trying to catch his breath when there’s no air left in the room and his tongue is still delving and the heat of his sighs and then he moans, fucking moans, the sound reverberating in his entire mouth, you can feel it when he comes, the shudder that travels from the base of his spine through his skull—

“Bro,” when did you get so loud, “fuck, I’m gonna, fuck, don’t stop, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck FUCK!” You shoot over your fist, onto your stomach, dick pulsing, hole clenching, head throbbing, fingers tingling, toes curling, over and over and over, you’re sure you’ve never come so hard in your fucking life and you feel so dirty and lucky at the same time, fuck Bro is amazing and he never treats you like anything less than a prince.

Bro takes ragged gasps for air once he’s sure you’re done, and you catch him licking his palm, like he always does—it’s just a Thing, everybody has a Thing, that’s his Thing, and then sure enough his tongue, warm and wet and wonderful, comes to clean your skin, and he nips at you a little which makes you laugh and he’s smiling this shit-eating grin good lord fuck you finally understand that expression for the first time in your life and when he nuzzles against your stomach you kick at him a little. “Hey, cut it out, just wanna love on you,” he croons at you, far too articulate for just blowing his load.

“Stop—licking, it’s ticklish, asshole,” you say through a hysterical laugh, but it only means that he crawls up your body to press his heat to yours, nuzzling his nose into your cheek. “God, you are so fucking gross, why do I put up with you.” You don’t mean it, of course, and he knows that, especially with the doofy grin splitting your face.

“Because you love me,” he says effortlessly, as if it were a foregone conclusion. You’re stunned, in actuality, and you just look up into his face, taking in his golden eyes—because I love you, is what you heard, and if that’s true, and if your feelings—but that can’t possibly, how is it that Bro Strider is so completely enthralled with you?

Of course, now’s when he chooses to give up and be fuck-dazed lazy, collapsing onto your chest. “Hey, just ‘cause I love you doesn’t mean I can go without breathing, move, fuckface.”

Eventually the two of you are on your sides. Though you can smell his breath, it doesn’t… smell any different. “Wanna kiss you,” Bro mumbles into your hair after he pulls you close.

“Wash your mouth out with soap,” you suggest. Your hands still tangle with his anyway.

He moves closer, but it’s only to press absurdly affectionate kisses to your ear. “Glad you couldn’t wait,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to.”

“Oh, but we have all weekend,” you remind him.

“That we do, kid. That we do.”


	4. Hunger

Bro must be a coffee person, because that’s what draws you out of your room at godawful early to meet him in the kitchen.

“Morning, sunshine,” he chirps, god damn it why is he so awake? He doffs his “World’s Best Dad” mug at you and raises an eyebrow and you just want to throw his drink in his face so he’ll stop being so fucking chipper.

You can’t even decipher your own grumble in return. You’re so sleepy and lazy that you’re not even walking, just keeping your feet three inches from the ground as you ghost through the Strider apartment. “Food.” Okay, that one you could understand.

“Gotta be more specific,” Bro tells you. “Eggs? Pancakes?”

“You can actually cook?”

“Had to learn.” He shrugs. How were you not awake enough before now to notice that he’s just as half-naked as you? Both of you are just wandering around without shirts on, but at least your sleep pants are somewhat respectable, blue plaid instead of—is that a Smuppet print? What a brand whore. “Tell you what, I’ll make eggs. Cheap, fast, easy.”

He winks at you and you only grumble more. You wish you could go back to sleep, so you rest your chin on Bro’s shoulder, letting him drag you around the room while he starts preparing to make breakfast. “Wanna go back to bed.”

“So go.” He shrugs, but it doesn’t shrug you off; in fact, it just makes you that little bit more awake below the waist to feel his muscles work under your jaw. God damn is he cut and you love that. “Not keeping you up.”

“Don’t wanna go if you’re not there.” Bro freezes. Prankster’s gambit 1, Strider cool 0. “Come back to bed.” Yeah, you’re sleepy, and you want to curl around him anyway, but you form your entire body to his. You have to float a few inches off the floor to do it, since he’s taller than you are, but your chest aligns with his back, your hips with his ass, your knees with the backs of his legs. For emphasis, you hug him loosely around the waist. You’re not letting him go anywhere without you.

“Egbert, I am trying to make you food.” He’s explaining it to you like you’re either a very young child or an overeager puppy.

“Don’t want food,” you mumble into his neck. When you kiss the skin your breath heated up, you see Bro’s hands drop to the counter, clenching for dear life. It’s a dead giveaway. “Just want you.”

“John, I want to feed you and for once I want it to be something other than cum.”

“Nope.” You kiss the slope of his shoulder, then nibble at it; you skim the palms of your hands over his abs, trailing down, and down, and down. “Nope nope nope.”

“John,” he tries again, but nothing else seems to want to leave his throat. Kissing his adam’s apple just gets a sound trapped there, something low and dirty and delicious. Your hands skim down, to the soft cotton of his sleep pants, and oh yes he is most definitely hard already.

You frame his boner in your hand, slide your grip along, and you swear he’s going to crumple the laminate countertop in his fists if he grips it any harder. “Relax,” you whisper in his ear.

“John, I swear to godfuckingchrist—“ What an ineffectual threat. But he does let go of the counter, instead slapping his palms against the surface and almost clawing a little as you close around him with a little more pressure.

Wait, where the hell are his hands again? One is on the countertop, but the other—“Bro, your hand’s on the stove!”

“Fuck!” He pulls back with lightning speed, almost knocking you out of your precarious position, but then he starts laughing. “It’s cold as a hunk of goddamn ice, I’m gonna kill you, John Egbert—“

Prankster’s gambit 2, Strider cool 0. “I am so good at this game,” you murmur into his ear before you lick at the shell of it. As long as you’re playing, you up the ante and show your hand before your fingertips move past the waistband of his sleep pants.

His cock feels good in your hand. From this angle, it feels more like jacking off, except when you jack off, Bro isn’t making these noises and the heat of his body isn’t pressed so close to yours. You can feel every movement of his body against yours, his pulse thudding in his throat under your lips, his breathing harsh and knocking against your ribcage. “John,” he sighs out, and when the vowel sounds like that it’s an involuntary moan.

He makes an amazing sound again when the side of your hand bumps against his Prince Albert. “D’you like that?”

“Love it.” Love you, you hear. He reaches behind himself, finds a fistful of your hair with one hand and a fistful of ass with the other, and pulls, pulls you as close as he can, pulls you close like you could phase under his skin and become a part of him, and God do you want to.

He’s practically twitching in your grasp. It feels so good. With the edge of your finger, you nudge his piercing back and forth as you keep stroking, and he makes this gasp that sounds like he’s just found the surface of your ocean. “Just breathe,” you remind him.

“Hard to,” he counters, choking. Stroke, stroke, stroke, and you can feel a shiver work from his shoulders to his sacrum.

It’s nice. Sleepy silence, harsh breathing, kissing on Bro’s neck while his entire body heats up next to yours. Too much silence, though. “Talk to me.”

“Can’t believe you’re doing this,” spills out of his mouth. “Can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

“Do you want me to try?” is your immediate rebuttal. To get him back on track, you cup your palm around the head of his dick, smear his precum and shift his piercing.

Bro makes a needy, desperate sound from deep in his chest, and if your free hand wasn’t so busy pushing up his shirt to find a nipple, you’d be fistpumping right about now. Instead, you pump his cock with your fist that much faster. “God, how the fuck, John, you’re not even freaking out about the—the piercing or anything, unh…”

He tries to thrust forward into your hand, but you try to pin him down so he can’t move. Of course, this gets you to rut up against his ass, and of course you’re hard, been getting harder by the second as you listen to his filthy mouth and his ragged gasps for breath. His—dear God, you can’t believe you’re even thinking this—his rump is just so fucking plush that it’s easy to get your hard-on between his asscheeks and thrust against him through your clothing. “Your body’s amazing,” you murmur to him, and you don’t want to stop because you’re right, all the things built up in your brain that you’ve longed to say to him but haven’t had the guts to until you’re this worked up. “Don’t believe me? Ask my boner.” You tip against him a little harder just to prove your point.

“Yeah, can feel it,” he’s muttering. You speed up just that little bit, and he yanks at your hair, making you moan. “Keep—making those sounds, fuck, you sound so good,” and this time he digs his fingertips into your ass, too, right into the fingerprint bruises he left just yesterday afternoon.

“Bro.” It still doesn’t feel right vocalizing, really. You’re still so afraid that someone’s going to catch you, and then you’ll die and fall off the face of the earth and spontaneously teleport to Mars and dig yourself to China all at the same time with the force of your embarrassment and shame. But then his hand moves down, from your hair to your shoulder, then changes its grip to go down your side, around to your front. “Bro, oh my God yes—“

There’s no preamble, no warning. He takes his palm, slicks your precum along your cock, and starts jacking you off like he means it. “Want you to come too,” he mutters. He sounds like he has to concentrate hard to form words.

If he can form words, it’s not quite enough. You up your speed, which makes him up his, and it all combines into a sweet delirium as sunlight pours into his kitchen and heats up under your skin and “Bro, gonna, keep doing, I’m gonna blow, shit, shit, oh!”

Just as you start to spurt over his hand, he does the same thing in yours, almost as if you were sharing the same body and it was as natural as his own grip, his own speed, his own. As natural as himself. As natural as you. You’ve seen him come before, seen the way he hollows his hand so he can keep his mess contained, and you do the same for him as he comes, thick and hot, pooling in your cupped palm.

He knows where this is going. “You want it, don’t you?” you taunt him.

You don’t even have to ask him to beg. “Please,” he pants.

The score’s already 3-0 and you’ve barely gotten out of bed. You raise your hand to his mouth and he starts greedily lapping and sucking at it, a salacious sound hidden in his throat between swallows. And then, fuck, he does the same with his own hand filled with your cum, he is a filthy kinky motherfucker and you’re so very sure that no one else does that but you wouldn’t think it was hot from anyone but him.

He makes sure to thoroughly suck your fingers, even after he cleans his own, and you know he’s going for something but you’re not sure what. His tongue is hot and perfect, and with two of your fingers in his mouth he can slide them together or apart and move between or on the pads of your fingers or suck both of them entirely into his mouth and pursing his lips—

God damn it, another surge pulses through your dick and though it isn’t much, the front of your sleep pants is now damp. Shit. Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t say that,” he says from in front of you. His voice is muffled, low and soft.

Wait, did you actually hurt his feelings? “I didn’t mean—why?” To make up for it, you nuzzle your nose at the base of his neck, planting a little apologetic kiss at the spur of bone that juts out.

“Exactly,” he says. “Because you don’t mean it.”

“What do you mean, I don’t mean—oh.” 3-1. You’re dense, Egbert. “No. Not—not yet.” Still, you spoon up against him in midair, not caring that he’s standing, not caring that you’re getting his pants wet with your mess, not caring that you’re doing a very good impersonation of a koala. “Still hate you.”

“Sure you do.” And you only love him more when he reaches behind himself to tousle your already sex-messed hair.


	5. Strife

He didn’t call on your birthday.

You checked your phone every five minutes. You dialed the first six numbers to Bro’s cell ten times during the school day, with the intent that you’d hang up so he’d have to call you back, but you chickened out every time. All the same, you remember the rising feeling of panic, the gorge in the back of your throat that didn’t seem to go away. So many texts came out of your thumbs, with words like “what the fuck is wrong with you,” but you never sent any of them, for fear of coming off like a pathetic asshole who has nothing better to do than to accost his… uh… well, to accost Bro. (It makes you uncomfortable that you don’t have a word for what your relationship with him is like. “Dirty little secret” comes closest.)

Instead, you played it off with your friends. Let Jade take you out to McDonald’s during your lunch period. Let Dave give you the start of his senior photography portfolio, all pictures of you that he took for yearbook and for your senior pictures. Let Rose collude with your dad and bake something for you.

But Bro? The one person you wanted to hear from? Absentee. You can’t push your relationship with him, whatever it is, because you’re sure it’ll crumble at the slightest amount of pressure. You like the way he treats you, even if you’re sure you don’t deserve it, and so you want to hold onto it.

It doesn’t stop you from being mad at him, though. You carry that anger with you, letting it seep into your bones and simmer like a shroud of fire. On Saturday, during your scant few hours every week you get to spend with him, you’re still bitter. “You didn’t call,” you accuse him, projecting your voice out in front of you while you barge down the hallway of the Strider apartment towards Bro’s bedroom.

You catch the tail end of a shrug from Bro once you throw his door open. (A shrug. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you don’t mean anything to him.) “Didn’t know there was something to call about.”

“It was my birthday,” you remind him. Your hands begin to clench into fists; you can hear your own knuckles cracking. “My eighteenth birthday.”

“Hey, whaddaya know.” How can he act so nonchalant about this? When he swivels in his desk chair to face you, the afternoon glare flits across his shades, and for a moment, he seems like a stranger. “Happy birthday, kid.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” You’re already acutely aware of the age difference between you and Bro. You don’t need any salt thrown in that wound. Not now. Not today. “It was my birthday, and you don’t give a shit.”

Finally, after you’ve been having this confrontation for a minute, Bro flips down his laptop screen and closes down his computer. It’s just you and him now. “I thought you said you wanted to keep this inconspicuous.”

“I don’t fucking care who knows about us,” you spit out. The more stupid words come out of his fucking mouth, the more you want to smash his goddamn teeth in. Hard.

“My mistake.” You fucking hate that Strider cool. You’re standing in Bro’s doorway like a volcano ready to blow and he’s just reclining back in his chair, playing with his phone, cool as a cucumber. “So you won’t mind if I tell your dad, then.”

From boiling over, your blood runs cold. You’re so angry that your body is freaking out on you. “Not him! Don’t fucking tell him!”

“Oh, so everyone except your dad. Fine. I’ll just tell Dave.” He starts moving his thumb across his iPhone screen. You hate that fucking patronizing tone of his, like you’ll always be a small child in his eyes and he’s the big smart adult who fucking knows everything and who pities you just enough to make you his fucktoy.

It happens before you realize it: you reach down with your arm to keep him from dialing, but you don’t know your own strength, so the phone ends up out of Bro’s hand and halfway down the hallway. It’s been years since you’ve swung that hammer, but your arms still remember what it feels like. “Don’t—don’t tell him.”

“Why not?” Oh, now he’s just mocking you. Your rage only increases moment by moment as you have to listen to Bro’s slick taunts. “Is it because you’re jealous? ‘Cause he gets to live here and you don’t?”

You really, _really_ don’t like the implications of that statement. Because if you lived here, you’d be sleeping in Bro’s bed, holding him from behind while he made you breakfast, sneaking kisses whenever you could… the thought of someone else doing that with Bro makes you feel sick. The thought of the Striders doing it with each other touches on an instinctive kind of wrongness that leaves you feeling even angrier than before. “No, fuckface—“

“Oh, I get it.” You hate him for baiting you like this; you hate yourself more for sinking to this level. “You settled for second best.” Your hands unclench; if they clenched any harder, you’d have been drawing blood from your palms out of the crescent-shaped nail grooves. You know exactly what you want to grip onto, but you shouldn’t. “You wanted to be with him, but he told you he wasn’t interested. So I’m your goddamn consolation prize.”

The growl rises up in your throat before you can stop it. Your strife specibus, and Wrinklefucker, come to hand before you even have to think about glitching the warhammer out of your sylladex. “Shut up!” comes out as a roar, and before you can stop yourself, you heave the weapon in a mighty swing above your head, centered straight on Bro’s skull.

But your blow doesn’t connect. Instead, there’s a terrible screech of sharp against solid as the edge of Bro’s blade connects with the shaft of your hammer. “Musta hit the nail right on the head, to get you so riled up,” he quips at you from under the two layers of metal.

“I’ll show you hitting the nail on the head,” you snarl. With your momentum, you heave the hammer in a circle around yourself to build up the impetus to hit at Bro again.

Once again, he parries. “Do you really wanna take this one to the roof, kid?”

“Call me kid one more time and I’ll hit you through the roof,” you threaten. Instead of keeping the fulcrum of the hammer so close to your body, you move your right hand up to right under the head, swinging with it to connect with Bro’s torso.

He steps out of the way, so fast that you could barely see it while it was happening. Supernatural reflexes? Or something more? “Egbert.” The steely tone in his voice makes you feel as if you don’t actually know him after all, even though you’ve both seen each other mostly naked. “Roof. Now. We’re settling this.”

“Fine,” you grit out. You follow him, your rage giving you a sort of myopic tunnel-vision, but once you have open sky above you, you’re finally in your element. “You just don’t fucking care!” you screech at him, launching yourself off the ground and getting in a good amount of hover before swooping down hard with the wind and letting gravity help the head of the hammer as it falls.

Bro’s blade lands on the shaft of the hammer between your hands as you block; you can see the shock of the blow ripple down his arms. “I didn’t call,” he admits. “Because I care.”

“Bullshit!” To try something new, you drop low, using the force in your legs to swing the hammer to the side, then up, aiming right at his groin.

Of course, the Strider effortlessly flash-steps out of the way. (He’s gotta teach you how to do that. If it weren’t so irritating right now, it would be really fucking cool.) “I knew if I called during the day, you’d get in trouble,” he starts explaining. “You’d get detention, or expelled. Your dad would find out. He’d see who called, and he’d trace it back to me. And then I’d have a lot of ‘splainin’ to do, wouldn’t I?”

“Shut up!” The last thing you want to hear right now is his fucking logic, because you hate him being right about everything all the time. His little monologue, that you totally weren’t listening to but is beginning to sink in all the same, let you get energy back into your arms. In retaliation, you swing Wrinklefucker from the ground over your head to connect with Bro in some way.

With both hands on the end of the warhammer like this, of course it would seem effortless for Bro to cut across and knock the heavy weapon from your hands. You can hear him breathing heavily, though, and you know it wasn’t as easy as he made it look. Once he has you disarmed, though, he holds his blade down at his side, not going on the offensive whatsoever—except with his words. “And if I called at night, Dave would figure it out. He’s not stupid. He’s already put most of it together. He’d yank the phone out of my hands and try to say hello. Or he’d try to message you while we were talking, and you’d only respond once I hung up.”

“Excuses!” You still have your fists, and you swing wildly at him. You connect with something, but the crunch you feel is your own knuckles cracking; when you look down at your hand, you actually split the back of your knuckle open, but Bro’s got your blood on his shoulder. What, is he made of adamantium or something? “I don’t mean anything to you, not a goddamn thing,” and you could swear that, even though you have your glasses, you get a little more blind with each swing, nearsighted with rage. “I fucking love you, you jackass, and you just don’t give a shit!” Your punches land on his chest, his stomach, his side, and yet…

He doesn’t really move. He doesn’t make a sound. He just stands there. Stands there and takes it. He’s not hitting you back, just blocking the worst of your blows to keep you from doing him serious damage. His sword is glitched back to whence it came; he keeps retreating away from you, flash-stepping first to the door leading to the roof, then to the stairway, then back into his apartment, and still you can’t get over your compulsion to just hit him. Hit him until he gives in. Hit him until you feel better.

You don’t feel better. You feel worse. You feel like shit. You’ve just ruined everything, and he’s not doing jack shit about this, either. He really doesn’t care. He is so apathetic that he just keeps letting you hit him, use him as a punching bag, until your huffs and pants are interspersed with ragged gasps that sound far too close to sobs for your liking. “Come on, Bro,” you tell him, but your voice cracks in the middle of your pathetic plea. “At least hit me back, why aren’t you hitting me back, why aren’t you kicking my ass and wiping the floor with me?”

“Because, John…” He intercepts one of your weak-ass punches, captures your wrist in his fingers, and pins it against the wall of his bedroom. Your other wrist soon follows, and then Bro’s crushing his entire weight against you, keeping you immobile and making you feel every point where your body heat connects with a searing sizzle. “I don’t want to hurt you. I fucking care about you—I get it, I know why you’re angry, but I’m trying to protect you.”

His presence pressing up against you is calming some of your ridiculous anger, leeching it out of you like poison from a wound. As you come back to yourself, you realize what you did. You attacked Bro. You hit him. Someone you supposedly care about, and you tried to wreck his shit, bigtime. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice small. “I didn’t mean to do that, I was just so angry…”

“I get it,” Bro says again. His voice is warm and understanding. The same smoothness in his tone that irritated you earlier is now soothing you. “Sometimes you just gotta hit something. Or someone. Trust me, I’m used to it.”

Right. He did bring Dave up in that martial tradition, after all. “I shouldn’t’ve. That—that coulda gotten real ugly.”

Bro chuckles. When he takes a breath, you can feel his chest moving against yours, and his weight holding you down starts to shift from enraging to… something else. Another spark is burning along your skin, but it has nothing to do with what was ripping through you only a few moments ago. “I can take care of myself, John. What I want to do, though? Is take care of you. And I can’t do that unless you let me.”

“I don’t need you to ‘take care of me,’ whatever the fuck that means. Fuck you.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Bro corrects you. His voice is a little darker this time; for emphasis, his thigh starts to press between your legs, and you can feel the tension in his quads.

This time, it’s your turn to laugh, though it isn’t so bright or good-natured as Bro’s. “You think I don’t mean what I say? Fuck you. Fuck you _so hard_.”

“John,” and you don’t like the way he says your name this time, harsh-edged and ragged like the growl of a beast he’s holding back but can’t quite control. “ _Don’t_.”

It’s your turn to taunt him now. “Or what?”

Bro smashes his mouth to yours and starts kissing you so hard you can’t breathe.

He’s getting his teeth into it, mauling your lips, and he shoves his tongue against yours, plundering, taking. You’ve never felt him so dominant before—and you don’t want it to stop. All that rage burned up, but the agitation of it remained, and this—it feels good, even though you know Bro’s bitten your lip so hard it’s bleeding and licking up behind himself before kissing you again and again and again.

It’s all you can do to hold on, blindly grabbing for the back of his head. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, first outlining your arms and grasping at your biceps, then grabbing your ass, moving up and framing your hips before holding up your waist and ribcage. Your hands are already going up the back of his shirt, scratching insistently, and Bro makes a needy noise into your mouth that you’ve never heard from him before. Once Bro lets you up for breath, everything clicks. “You like it rough.”

“I just want you,” comes out of his throat, his voice so distorted by lust and greed that it’s almost impossible for you to reconcile this Bro, the one you’re familiar with, the one you’d know blindfolded (literally), with the one you just aggressed on the roof. “And there’s all these…” He can’t seem to stop kissing you, even to finish his own sentence. “Rules, things I have to tiptoe around—I don’t want to hide it either, trust me,” and this time it’s you interrupting him to tug at his bottom lip with your buck teeth before ripping his shirt off over his head. Fuck, he’s gorgeous, and you run your hands compulsively over the expanse of muscle laid out before you. “But we have to, and I hate it, sometimes I feel like I’m gonna explode with how much I’m feeling about you and I have to stuff it all down and pack it in—“

“I know,” you feel the same way, you really do, and you try to show it all now, with the ferocity of your kisses and how hard you’re tugging at Bro’s hair and how much you’re trying to press against his body, as if you could phase under his skin if you just tried hard enough. “Show me, I want to feel it…”

Bro’s laugh is breathless and brief before he starts sucking kisses into your neck; you hold his face there, because you want it to bruise, make purpling dark marks that everyone can see, make everyone wonder who it was who gave those to you. “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he whispers savagely into your throat as you cry out with the feeling of his teeth against your skin. “I’d give it to you, but not like this, wanna wait, want you to know how good it can be—“

“Tell me how.” You need to hear his voice, rough like this when he’s holding back from ravaging you with all his strength. You claw down his sides, bringing your hands around to his front, and making sure he can feel the heat and the pressure, you drag your palms down his stomach and start to work on the button and fly of his jeans.

“Not like this,” is all he says at first. When you worm your hand between his boxers and jeans to press against his boner, he makes a noise surprisingly like a whimper into your shoulder. “Slow,” he tells you, and you ease up. His body loses a little of its pent-up, wiry tension, and when he next speaks, his voice is much more in control. “Take all day if I have to. Use my lips and my tongue and my hands to pull you apart—ohfuckJohn—John!”

He predictably starts to lose his train of thought once you teasingly rub the cup of your palm against his head through his boxers, smearing the stain of pre already spreading, moving his piercing and making him moan. “Would you do—that? To me? That… thing?” Wow, even in the heat of passion you can’t even say what you want, it’s so filthy.

“For as long as you want.” He starts doing to you the same as you did to him, pushing up your shirt so he can start working on your shorts. You’re sure he can already feel your hard-on against his hip. To stay one step ahead of him, you start jacking him off, slow and teasing, through the fabric of his boxers. “Fuck—I’ve thought about it so much, you have no idea the things I wanna do to you…”

“Tell me, damn it, I wanna know, I want—I want!” That phrase pretty much sums it up. To back it up, you get your hand inside his boxers, wrap it around his dick, and start giving him a handjob, making sure to move the piercing as much as you can, easing it back and forth when it hits up against the inside of your wrist.

“You don’t know what you want unless you’ve been there.” The way he’s talking about it, it’s almost a reverent experience. “Don’t wanna hurt you, John, want you to love it, love every second of it, don’t wanna rush, wanna take my time with you—fuck, I actually love you, don’t I?”

That last mumbled sentence acted like the sound of a record scratching; the silence afterwards must only be audible to you, because Bro keeps panting hard and reaching into your boxers to start touching you like he means it. His stream-of-consciousness babble, it seems, has finally gotten the better of him, and it’s left you speechless. You don’t know what to say. Instead of gaping at him like a fish, though, you kiss him again, missing a little and biting at him but eventually centering yourself and touching your tongue to his.

He recovers from his little fumble without seeming to realize what he said out loud. “Gonna work you up to it—you’ll love it—fuck, yes, like that, John, god _damn_ , move, I wanna…” He knocks your hand off of his dick, shifting the way he’s holding you up against the wall. You don’t actually seem to be putting that much weight on his body—wind must be holding you up, like it always does at times like this.

Now that your hand’s free, you kinda wanna deck him again for giving you nothing to do. But then he pushes your hips closer together, and the heads of your cocks touch, and you can feel the cold titanium of his piercing against your slit. The sensation leaves a shiver running through your entire everything, realigning your entire perception of reality. Then Bro _moves_ against you, putting exquisite pressure on the backside of your dick—just from his own cock moving against you. “Holy shit, Bro,” is the only thought left in your head. You try rutting up against him yourself and the feeling multiplies, especially as you feel a tremor run through his skin. “I wanna—let me see something—“

His cock isn’t that much bigger than yours—he’s got maybe a smidgen of girth and half an inch on you at best—but if that’s true, then your cock must look _fucking huge_ to him as well. Still, you have large-ish hands—once again, not quite as big as Bro’s—and after wrangling that phallic hammer, you should be able to handle this. The question is one of logistics. You settle for looping a thumb and forefinger around yourself, the other three fingers wrapping as far as you can around Bro, and then— _then_.

“Johnohmygod” falls out of Bro’s mouth, the tone wondrous, and from the thuds on the wall right next to your ears, he had to brace himself up like that to keep from completely falling over. When you actually try to pump your hand, you can feel—everything, every ripple of a vein on Bro’s cock, every millimeter as his piercing drags over your skin, and then it’s Bro’s knees connecting with the wall. “Move your finger, I can’t—wanna be up against you, like—“

Bro does it himself, taking both your dicks in one leather-clad hand and giving one slow, pressured pump. He’s right—your finger was in the way. When you wrap your hand around like he’s doing with his, it only intensifies the pressure, like both of your cocks are pumping in and out of the same channel. You’re both leaking pre so every stroke, in and against each other, is slick and lubed and perfect, not too much friction, not too much glide. Your brain is somewhere in a place beyond words right now, but your mouth is still trying, God bless it. “Bro, fucking—oh my God faster—is this…?”

“Not even a fraction,” he grits out, breathless, into your ear. When you look up, he’s smiling beneath those shades, looking goddamn dangerous—and goddamn do you love him for it.

You’re just about on overload from only this. “So good—so fucking good,” you tell him, taking the opportunity to move your hips and thrust yourself against him, within the circle of your hands.

Bro chokes down a sigh, but when your hips fall and you move back down, the sigh transforms into a full-on, throaty moan. “Like that, John, good, just like that, steady,” and he moves with you, against you, beside you, the two of you building a cadence, at first slow, then speeding up when the two of you can’t get enough.

It’s such a unique sensation, especially with Bro’s breath hovering around your ear and his teeth still threatening at your throat and your mouth filled with the taste of him and your knuckles scabbing over and bruises already forming on some of his skin. The look on his face is simultaneously helpless and totally in control, and you have no idea how he does it but he does, he really fucking does, he does all of it and he does it all to you and he said he loved you, he said it, it came out of his mouth, and so maybe that’s why it’s tripping out of your own when you start babbling back at him, “so good, love you, wanna cum, lemme cum…”

“Do it, wanna feel it, yes,” and Bro’s last syllable draws itself out into a hiss when you topple off that precarious edge and finally fall, hitting your climax with pulses of cum jetting out to cover Bro’s stomach and lube up the space enclosed in your dual grip. At the tail end of your orgasm, you can feel him hit it, too, the tell-tale throb in your grip leaving him doubly spattered with release. Knowing he’s there makes yours keep going, or maybe it’s a second in only seconds—time’s a blur and you don’t try keeping it straight, counting it by your fast pulses or your harsh pants.

Fuck, and Bro does the same this time as he’s done on all the others, swiping sticky fingers through the mess to clean them with his tongue, and one of those days watching him do that is going to give you an aneurysm from you trying to reconcile how _disgusting_ and _sexy_ it is at the same time. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, that blissed half-lidded eyelashes-fluttering seeing-blank stare with those gorgeous golden eyes that leaves you weak at the knees. It just keeps the afterglow going, and you feel like you’re going to fall.

You probably did, seeing as your next awareness of your spatial position is with you sitting, your back to the wall and legs splayed out in front of you, while Bro’s sitting between your legs and just sort of leaning back against you. It’s nice. Like cuddling, if that was a thing that the two of you ever did. (Ew. Are you cuddling? This shit is getting serious.) “Bro?”

“Yup.” Ah, so he’s here, then. And just as sarcastic as ever, if that reply is any indication.

“Why do you always do… that? Afterwards?” You are as articulate as always, which is to say, not very.

Bro shrugs. This time, the innocent motion doesn’t piss you off like it did before. “A long time ago, someone taught me to clean up after myself when I make a mess. Guess the habit kinda stuck.”

The way he talks about it hits on something he’s kept hidden from you: his past. “Who was he?”

For a moment, the silence in the room makes you think you went too far. Then Bro breathes out, soft, through his nostrils, and you know things are still okay. “I was with him when I was your age. And at the time, he was older than I am now.”

“Dude, that’s…” Once again, you swear the wind has stolen the words from off your tongue. “Kinda fucked up.” Oh, oh shit, that was the opposite of what you meant to say—

“I know, right?” Bro stretches a little; one of his joints cracks, though you can’t place which one. You’re mesmerized whenever the muscles in his back work like that. “Kinda like what we have going on right now.”

You weren’t expecting him to turn that inquiry back on you. “I know,” you grumble, shifting a little so he can’t see your face. “I don’t like not telling people.”

“I am legitimately afraid of your father beating me to death with my own skull.” Bro reaches up to fluff your hair, and for once, you don’t stop him. You like the feel of his fingertips against your scalp.

You’ll concede that much. “Dad’s weirdly protective. He doesn’t like you guys much.”

“You guys?”

“You or Dave. It’s like he thinks you’re both contagious or something.” You can’t stop running your fingertips up and down his bare arm, tracing the musculature under his skin.

“Oh, but we are. You already caught the love bug.”

“Go to hell, Bro,” you say good-naturedly. You’re just glad he’s being nonchalant about the whole ‘love you’ thing, because it’s freaking you out, and knowing that he’s calm about it makes you feel a little better about the whole thing. “No, but really, I feel like shit knowing that we’re…”

“Doing this behind Dave’s back.” Are you two really at the point that you’re finishing each other’s sentences? “Trust me, I don’t like it either, but he’s unpredictable.”

“Wish there was someone else we could tell. Y’know, as a litmus test.” You feel like such a dork, with your chemistry terms.

Bro falls silent for a moment. It’s a comforting silence, one that wraps around both of you like a blanket, and you don’t feel the urge to break it with anything. “Rose.”

“What about her?”

“We’ll tell Rose.”

This time, you’re the one snorting out the laugh. “No way in hell.”

“She can keep a secret,” Bro points out. “She loves the psychoanalysis bullshit, she’ll have a field day with it. And, y’know, technically I’m her brother too. Slightly less intimidating to test this on a sibling I don’t live with.”

“What about Jade? Maybe she could—“

“Don’t,” Bro cuts across you. This silence is a little more awkward. “I mean, I know she’s your fake sister, like Rose and me I guess, but she’s not…” He isn’t explaining himself very well. “I don’t want her to be triangulated in here even more than she already is.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? “You don’t want her ending up like Dave, is that what you’re saying?”

“Something like that.”

You drop the questions, because you don’t like where they’re taking you. Instead, you keep one eye on the clock while you try to make up to Bro what you took out on him earlier.


	6. Sound

“John, it’s just hanging out with our dicks out, don’t make a big deal out of it.”

When Bro says it like that, he kinda makes you feel like shit for just being shy. You’ve never been naked around anyone before, and here he is, just ripping off his shirt and holy fucking god is he attractive. He’s like an Abercrombie and Fitch ad, if they were in color—his body is perfectly sculpted, powerful but not too muscular, and you like tracing his movements with your eyes when he flings his shirt into the corner. “Easy for you to say,” you mumble.

“Hey. I’m not standing for that. You’re gonna get naked and you’re gonna like it, now get your shirt off!” Still, he’s smiling, and when he goes to push up the bottom hem of your shirt, he pins you with your back to the mattress. His mouth follows his fingers, and when he finally pushes your shirt into your armpits, he blows a big fat raspberry on your stomach while he tweaks your nipples.

It leaves you laughing and squirming. How does he do that? He always makes you feel so… at ease. Like this is how things are supposed to be. He’s just as silly as you, really, and so you don’t mind laughing and yelling at him to get off, kicking playfully at him even as he strips you. You don’t even really feel naked, because his body hovers over you, his heat seeping under your skin, and you effortlessly loop your arms around his neck to hold him in place as he kisses you.

He can still sense your nervousness, though, because when he pulls back, he’s still smirking down at you from behind those pointed shades. “John. Calm. The fuck. Down. I’ve seen your penis. It is a very, very nice penis. And I would like to see it right now.”

You’re mentally twelve, because he gets you to chuckle at the clinical term. “You first, then,” is the closest you’ll come to budging on this.

“Fiiiiiine.” But the way he drawls it out like that, you know he’s really not that aggravated with you. When he peels himself away, you almost regret daring him, but then he’s undoing his belt and shoving everything down around his waist and whoa Bro Strider is getting naked for you. Because you asked him to. Wow. That’s. That’s a really powerful feeling, actually. “You just gonna stare or you actually gonna cop a feel?”

Of course you’re going to grab his ass. His ass is fucking perfect, just the right kind of handful, soft skin over muscle and still plush as all hell. He makes a little noise in his throat, and you watch his adam’s apple move as he tips his head back, and then he’s pouncing on you again, kicking free of his clothes so he can settle his weight on top of you.

His naked weight. “John,” he says in that smooth-talker voice. “Babe,” he says in that tone that could get you to do anything. He says it right into your ear, his breath hot, sucking your earlobe into his mouth and even nibbling on it a little. You are putty in his hands. “I’m not gonna take your pants off.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “Until you beg me.”

Oh. Oh, no. You are going to lose this game and he knows it. His skin against you is hot, every kiss he plants on you searing you to the bone, and when he finally captures your mouth again and rubs his slick tongue against yours you feel like he set you on fire. “Bro,” you moan out into his mouth. You can feel his shudder when your hands come up to frame his face, but you can’t stop there; you smooth along his neck, shoulders, down his arms to grasp at his biceps as he keeps kissing you.

“Not good enough.” Still, he seems to gasp it straight into your mouth, and he tastes so good when you open your mouth to him. His hips drop to roll against yours and it just gets you harder.

Because you can _feel_ him, really _feel_ him against you, and the fact that he’s so comfortable baring everything for you means you can be comfortable with him, too, right? “Bro, oh my God. Bro, I want…”

It won’t come out of your mouth, mostly because you can’t tear yourself away from making out with him for long enough to actually say real words. “What was that, Johnny?” Oh, you hate (love) it when he calls you that, and he feels out the shiver running down your spine when he moves his mouth to your neck and gently runs his teeth along your jugular. Meanwhile, he teases you by taking away your glasses, letting them rest on the nightstand and blurring your vision from more than just lust.

“Bro. Bro, stop—fucking around, fuck!” All your words come out with an extra hum to them, because his lips are nearly at your larynx as he sucks a hickey into your neck. It feels so fucking good, that dull throb under your skin that he’s bringing to the surface. You don’t care if people see, now. You’ve gone to school with these, hung out around Dave without covering them up, and no one’s said a damn word.

Bro takes his mouth away, but only to plant more kisses in a trail running from your throat to your shoulder, nibbling at your collarbone as he moves. And still he holds you down, and you feel like you’re melting into the mattress with the more he touches you, kisses you. “Tell me.” He looks up—he still has the shades on—not for long, because he brings his hand up and holy fuck you have never seen his eyes so shining gold before. He is beautiful, if that’s a word that can be applied to rampant sexualized masculinity. “Tell me what you want.”

“Get my fucking pants off!” Still, you don’t say it mean, and you actually swat him on the shoulder a little bit to get him moving.

“Impatient little fuck.” Still, though, he sits back on his heels from where he situated himself between your legs. You shiver now that he’s taken his body heat away from you. “What do good boys say?”

“Fuck you.” That’s not what they say. “Please.”

The instant the first hint of that syllable leaves your lips, Bro’s still-gloved hands are working on your button, zip, bunching at your waistline and pulling everything down, stripping you—he’s half-hard and so are you, but you’re gonna lose it soon if he doesn’t stop staring at you. You have no idea what he sees—tanned skin, maybe, dark hair everywhere, not just messy on the top of your head but curling in your pits, sprinkled in the center of your chest, a strong line leading down from your navel and a rampant mess down south where your boner’s trying hard not to wilt, hair on your legs that you tangle with his smooth ones. (Does he shave? Is it for you? Or is he just more highly evolved into something not man-ape-ish?) “Why’re you shivering?” he asks you.

Because you can feel his eyes on your body and it makes you uncomfortable. “Cold,” you say instead.

“Shoulda said something.” His voice is warm enough, and then his body settles over yours again. This way, you don’t feel so scrutinized. He covers you, shelters you. Every touch makes you relax, a puddle on the mattress, and when he kisses you there’s no true urgency there, just reassurance, just sensation to get lost in. “Better?”

“Yeah.” It comes out as a heady sigh, because he’s holding your body stupidly close as he kisses your neck again, this time bruising the other side of it. One arm comes under your body to cradle you to him; the other hand runs from your ribcage, down your side, fondles at your ass, gropes along the back of your thigh to end behind your knee and pull you even closer to him. “Bro, oh my God…”

“I know.” You don’t know what to do with your hands; one ends up threading through Bro’s hair and pulling just a little, making a whimper stick in his throat, and the other rakes down his spine as he keeps sending sparks along your skin. You can feel his dick up against your hip, the unyielding metal of his piercing and then the smoothness of sensitive skin over heated flesh. When you move your hips, he makes another little noise that you adore; when you deign to look up, he has his eyes wrenched shut, mouth hanging a little open, so you do it again. “John, fuck, I wanna,” spills out of his mouth.

Fuck, so do you, anything lurking behind that half-sentence is good with you. “Same,” you whisper, and then his mouth is trailing down, down, closing hot and slick around one of your nipples and biting just a little and you yelp not out of pain but out of surprise and unanticipated pleasure. “Whoa, shit!”

Bro soothes the bite with his tongue before he pulls back. “Like that?” You nod down at him. “Like it when I get my mouth all over you?”

“Yeah, fuck,” and you can’t help but trace his motions down, watch his lips worship your skin, see the scant light in the room reflect off of his teeth before he gently bites down so he can bruise. “Don’t stop…”

“Don’t want to.” He has this… thing, about his mouth, and using it, and putting it everywhere on you, and saying filthy words that effortlessly drop from his lips. You love it, and he loves that you love it, and he loves it, and you love that he loves it. It works out well for everyone. Now, as his mouth keeps moving down, he sucks a mauling hickey into your hipbone, and you cry out, canting up to press against his mouth and writhing under him from the pain-pleasure feel of it. “John,” and the way he says your name like that, you know he’s hiding a moan under the vowel, “I wanna, lemme eat you out.”

This. You are. Wow. You are very okay with this. “Fuck yeah.” For the first time since clothes started coming off, you smile, really smile, and you love the way his mouth trails from your hip to the inside of your thigh, his tongue teasing at your balls while you feel another surge in your cock. The arm that was holding you close snakes out from under you, just so he can run his palm along your cock and gently trap it against your stomach; he relishes in your little noise of frustration, because you can feel his giggle against your skin. “Not fair,” you whine, but it comes out so breathless that he has to know you’re not really complaining.

He holds onto your knee with his other hand, bringing it up off the bed and holding it out at the same time, and you know he wants you to spread for him. There’s really no other way he can do this, but it still makes you feel weird, exposed and vulnerable where air starts hitting places air should not be hitting. “Shh,” Bro whispers against your inner thigh, and the skin there is so sensitive that it already starts to prickle into gooseflesh just from him doing that.

“Thought you liked it when I—ahh!” There. Just like that, he has you shutting up. Usually you two can bicker at each other pretty well, even when you’re making out, even when you’re jacking each other off, even when one of you is swallowing the other’s dick, but there are some things that just make you lose your words. The first moment of his tongue licking along your entrance is one of them. It’s just so slick and hot, pressing just so, and going so slowly, and everything’s absurdly sensitive, and it seems so dirty, filthy, pornographic, which only makes it hotter.

After that first broad swath of spittle, Bro pulls back—a few inches, a few miles, too far, why isn’t he—and just breathes against the wetness, making you twitch. “Fuck I love it when you make noise for me,” he practically murmurs straight into your balls, cradling them with his mouth even as he says it.

“Then you better work for it—fucking—oh!” His tongue goes in reverse this time, tracing down with the point until he reaches behind your balls, down your taint, and across your hole again, prodding more than licking but it still feels so fucking good even if you’re not ready to open for him yet.

To reward you for your little slip, he gets his whole mouth over your entrance, licks at you over and over with his tongue until you’re squirming, until your neglected cock is pulsing up against his hand for want of some kind of stimulation. “Wanna make you scream,” he mutters when he comes up to take a breath.

You’ll do it. Nobody’s home. You came here straight after school on a day when Dave has yearbook meetings, straight into Bro’s bedroom and straight into kissing him without a second thought. (What did he think was going to happen, after he texted you like that all day?) And now it’s built up to his tongue doing salacious things to unmentionable areas, licking slow and steady and pressured and it’s so hot and so wet and you just can’t stand it. Still, it comes out tremulous at first, mostly because you’re shaking with how good it feels. “Fuuuuuuck…”

“More.” He comes up for air, but never stops with his mouth on you. “Wanna hear it.”

Even with your thighs as earmuffs, he wants to still hear you? Does he want to get disturbance-of-the-peace notices once the neighbors call about the racket? All rational thought, all questions, fall out of your head when he starts tracing his tongue in circles and figure-eights and spirals around your entrance. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck,” each word coming out as its own pant, and you can feel yourself trying to swallow down air but nothing’s coming to you. Every nerve ending you have is alight, and “fuck!” comes out of you, loud enough to reverberate from the walls, as he traces his tongue in ever-changing motions.

“John,” and when he says it like that, there, you can feel the heat of his breath against your twitching asshole, nearly sense the vibrations of his moan against your skin, “you have no idea, no fucking idea how hot you sound right now.”

You almost can’t make sense of the words. Your dick is drooling into your pubes, and Bro’s just doing this thing, this sensual thing, where he’s rubbing his palm against it as he presses it into your stomach. You lost track of where his other hand is, but his mouth, his everloving mouth, is still on you, pressing, trying to get _in_ you, “holy shit oh my God Bro!”

Of course he doesn’t answer, he’s trying to get his tongue in you. Still, you can _feel_ his throaty moan up _inside_ you as he persuades you to open for him, the second little ring a little more difficult than the first. He never gives up, never stops trying, and the way he just _slides_ makes you feel like your brain’s just melted out of your ears.

He’s. He’s in you. His tongue’s in you, fucking you open, making you messy, and you’re so hard you’re throbbing against the gentle grasp of his hand, your balls so tight you feel like they’re going to burst, and you are close, so close, just on the edge, and he’s keeping you there, the bastard, and you can’t help but make noise and moan for him and maybe even yell a little (you are not _screaming_ you are not so undignified as to _scream_ ) and—

_That is not his tongue._

Something else slick and wet is tracing along your hole even as he keeps licking you, but it’s cold instead of searing and it’s sticky instead of smooth. “Bro?” It’s more of a question, hesitant and maybe a little panicked, because you’re not too far gone that you can’t figure out what the hell he’s trying to do to you.

“Relax,” he whispers—right into your balls. How romantic. “It’ll warm up. Trust me.”

You do. God knows why, but you do. And it does—it does feel a little better, doesn’t feel so intrusive, but still, that is his _fingertip_ and he wants to _get it in your butthole_. “I…”

He doesn’t try using words this time. Instead, his tongue comes up to paint a long stripe of spittle on your dick. Okay, yeah, that—that feels pretty good. And with how slick that fingertip is, how it’s moving against your entrance, you can almost pretend it’s his tongue. It encourages you to open just the same, doesn’t push you, doesn’t force its way in, but still, it’s weird, because it keeps going, keeps sliding, keeps stretching your hole open, and keeps entering, and keeps filling, and you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to this feeling. “Talk to me.” The way Bro says it, he almost sounds worried.

Maybe he has a reason to be: you’ve been holding your breath the whole time. You sigh it out hesitantly, take a ragged gasp in as he continues to move that finger—incremental millimeters in and out, teasing you with friction against the hole his finger is holding open, and it’s so _weird_ but it’s so _sensitive_ and _fuck does it feel good_. You’re just—scared. Is it okay to be scared? “Scared,” comes out of your mouth, and you hate the way you whimper it.

“Don’t be.” He licks along your dick again, and you shudder from the base of your skull to the end of your spine—and it only ends up moving you along his finger intruding into you. “I won’t hurt you.”

And, truth be told, he really isn’t. This isn’t hurting, it’s just… not… It’s hard to describe, the feeling of being penetrated for the first time, and so you focus instead on the sensations, the way his fingertip is gently prodding against you, the slow ease of his finger as he barely thrusts, and then—then there’s not really any more to take. It feels far, but it’s probably just because you’re sensitive. “Bro…” It’s both a word of warning and encouragement. Where is he going with this?

He moves his finger in you, not thrusting but curling, and it puts a whole new sort of pressure against you, one that makes you cry out a little. When he slips out, you almost moan at the absence, but then he’s pressing way too far forward you swear he’s trying to jab his finger out through your navel. Your breathing’s coming fast and huffy, and meanwhile Bro won’t stop with those soothing strokes of his tongue against your dick. (Did he know you were going to start flagging when he did this?) “It’ll feel better. Trust me.”

Right now, you don’t. It’s just an extra… something, not enough to change your whole life like the first time he offered to do… that. And then—and then. Then his finger slips far enough, and his fingertip prods at just the right place, just the right angle, just enough pressure, and you are actually twitching under him, your body violently moving out of your control as something _unbelievable_ floods your body. “Bro holy shit what was that?”

He laughs, the bastard. “Found it.”

“What?” It comes out as a breathy sigh, because instead of jabbing at whatever that was, he just rubs the pad of his finger against it instead, and the pressure is simultaneously too much and _notefuckingnough_. You move your hips against him, which pushes your dick into his hand and nudges his finger inside you again, and good fuck you think you’re going to fall apart just from this.

“John,” and when he pulls back you know to look down and catch his eyes, “I’d like to introduce you to your prostate.” He looks so earnest, so dramatic, when he says it.

It makes you want to slug him with a pillow, but you’re pretty much immobilized by pleasure, knowing whichever way you move, he’ll move with you, in you, on you, to drive you insane. “Bro Strider, you are such a melodramatic fuck,” you try to tell him, but it just comes out as a half-sigh, half-chuckle, before he goes right back into making you yell your voice out. “Bro holy shit if you do that again I am going to _die_.”

“Oh no you won’t.” And he’s right. With the more he pushes, presses, rubs, jabs, manipulates, thrusts his finger, massages your dick, licks your balls, you just feel more alive, thrumming with electricity, singing with the air you gulp down in hungry bursts as you remember to move your lungs, undulating your body under Bro’s as he touches you so expertly, teaches you how to live in your own body.

“Bro,” seems to be the only word you remember. “Bro oh my God.” That, and assorted curse words. “Bro, fuck, I need,” and pathetic begging, “more, please, I need…”

“Another?” You nod frantically. That’s what he was waiting for. He works his finger out enough so he can press a second slickened fingertip against your entrance, and then you get stretched twice as much, twice as tight, as he works this second one in. God, and you love the feel of yourself clenching around him, everything is just so sensitive as his girth holds you open and when he slides against you every articulation of his knuckles seems magnified to ten thousand percent and you’re going to fall apart as he works you even further open, plunges somehow deeper and fills a space you didn’t know was wanting.

“Yes,” you’re babbling, “yes, Bro, holy shit yes, just like that, oh my God!” Yes, it trails off into a wail, because now it’s twice the pressure as two fingertips, not just one, start going at your prostate. It’s overstimulation and it’s terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, like the first time you let yourself fall from ten thousand feet and the sudden jolt as you caught yourself before you hit the ground.

You can feel his satisfied hum as a vibration in your cock as he keeps licking at you, his hand finally letting your dick spring free as it trails up your chest. Oh my god. Oh my god that’s why it feels so sensitive _he is still wearing his gloves_ and when you concentrate you can actually feel the leather ridge moving against you, in and out of you, that one little bit of resistance ratcheting everything up further. This time, you actually do scream, and Bro only encourages it out of you, closing his mouth around the head of your cock, reaching up to pinch a nipple, and you arch your back under him, trying to get away from _toomuch_ and closer to _notenough_ at the same time.

“Bro oh my god yes fuck yes fuck fuck me oh my god harder more,” words keep spilling out of your mouth like you’re a ten dollar whore and you don’t even care, not so long as Bro’s going to keep your dick in his mouth and hum contentedly around your corona like that as you keep gifting him with your lewd language. “Harder more fuck me _damn it fuck me!_ ” His breath hitches in his throat as he opens to swallow your cock, and it’s like the floor drops out from under you.

Bro’s hand comes up to cover your mouth even as he works on you harder, sucking your dick like it’s a bendy straw and he’s trying to drink up your soul, fingering you like an angry gamer mashing B during the cutscenes, and you bite on the leather of his glove because it’s too good you scream behind the back of his hand and spill into his mouth and you can feel yourself twitching around his two fingers and it nudges them even more insistently against your hot spot and it just keeps going and going and going and Bro’s oddly silent as he swallows and comes up and looks at you with those golden eyes so intense.

And, with a lurch in your stomach, you realize why. Why it felt like waking up after a falling dream. Why it felt like just barely catching yourself inches before you hit the ground. “Bro, I thought I told you to stop bringing guys home in the middle of the day.”

That.

That is Dave.

That is your best friend, home when he shouldn’t be, and he’s about to find out that you are the guy Bro brought home in the middle of the day.

You’re far too tight around Bro now; his fingers don’t come out easily, but he’s whispering into your ear, frantic and hurried. “I thought you said he was at yearbook today.”

“They must have canceled it, I don’t know!” Your voice is just as stage-whispered harsh.

“Here. I got it.” He rolls away from you—you are freezing cold—but only to grab a sweatshirt. Orange. Definitely not yours. (Where are your own clothes?) “Put this on. Hood over your head.”

“Why?” Still, you follow his directions, almost putting the thing on backwards in your panic.

“Because he’s gonna come in here and ask who I’m fuckin’ and I don’t want him to see that it’s you.” Will he still be able to tell? Your clothes are all over the bed and the floor, your glasses are on the nightstand—he’s gonna know, he’s gonna find out, and your stomach clenches from more than just post-orgasm letdown. “Roll over,” and his hand on your shoulder is hot and heavy as he does it himself, you’re too blissed to move even though you want to comply. “Stay like that, against the wall—“

Bro barely has time to snatch the pillow from under your head before Dave just opens the door. Like he owns the place or something. “A screamer? Again?” Dave’s voice. Exasperated and annoyed. He’ll hate you if he finds out.

Something shifts. Bro’s holding the pillow over his parts, then. “Do you mind? Some of us like our privacy.” How the hell does he do that? Bro’s cool as a cucumber. Has this happened before? Your heart is racing, and you feel like you can’t breathe.

“And some of us like to be able to do our homework in relative peace and quiet.” Pause. You can almost picture the look on Dave’s face.

And you can almost hear Bro’s noncommittal shrug in response. “Virgin,” he says dismissively. Is that tone only for Dave, or is that what he really thinks of you? “Get out, leave him be.”

“As long as you shut up.” That sounds way more like a threat than you’re used to hearing. Maybe the Strider brothers’ relationship is a little darker than you originally thought.

Still, you can hear it when the door closes, and you sigh out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Holy shit,” you whisper. Your entire body’s trembling from floods of hormones, adrenaline kicking in along with that orgasm rush leaving you with the equivalent of a sugar crash.

“Close call,” Bro agrees. He peels back the hood of your sweatshirt, nibbles a little on your ear.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “How the hell do you think I’m going to get out of here?”

“Very carefully?” So he has no idea. “Listen, I can shut Dave in his room for a few minutes while you get out to the transportalizer. Don’t worry about that. I just…” He sighs, his breath heating your neck. “Need to know if you’re okay.”

“Yeah.” Your breathing is still shaky, but you’ll manage. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“I don’t mean just about the shitstain walking in on us thing.”

“Oh.” He wants feedback? “Yeah. More than—more than okay,” you fumble out. “Very, very okay. Like, super okay. On a list from one to okay, that is over-okay.”

“All right, all right, I get it.” His voice is a warm chuckle, soothing over your residual anxiety. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen again. I’ll make sure of it.”

This time, you can’t catch your breath for an entirely different reason.


	7. Need

Your phone’s been going off every, like, five seconds today, and every single time, it’s a text from Bro.

[Dave’s gonna be out of the house tonight.]  
[Come over.]  
[That’s not a request.]  
[That’s a demand.]  
[If I jack off any more today my dick is going to fall off.]  
[I need you over here yesterday.]  
[There are things I wanna do to you right now that I don’t even think are legal.]  
[I’m going to sext you constantly until you answer your phone.]  
[FALL OFF, John.]  
[I’m not beyond begging.]  
[Please, John.]  
[I need you so bad right now.]

Bro, who never begs, is begging for you.

You stop off at your house after school, but only for long enough to drop your stuff. There’s weird noises coming from the kitchen, but you figure Dad’s just baking again. Doesn’t matter. You’re not planning on staying, especially now that you’re checking your messages. By the time you hit the coordinates on the transportalizer, you’re half-hard, heart racing.

On the other side, a strong, leather-clad hand practically drags you out of the chamber, past the Striders’ apartment door, past kitchen and living room and down a narrow hallway until you hit a familiar faded-orange bedroom. Bro can’t even wait until he can get you onto the bed—he wheels you around with the fingers clamped around your wrist, slams your back against the slammed-shut door, and has you pinned to it with the delicious weight of his body as his hot hands cradle your face and his forehead presses against yours. “John,” he says, his voice heavy and raw. It scares you how honest and earnest he is right now, how much of himself he bared with just that one word. “I need you.”

“I got your texts,” you say weakly. He captures your mouth in a domineering kiss, only deigning to let you go once your hands come up to rake through his hair and gently tug his head back. “Whoa, Bro, c’mon, what do you want?”

“I wanna treat your dick like my personal rodeo.” His lips hit yours again, hot and heavy and his tongue is slick as it prods your mouth open, tastes behind your teeth and bumps up against your own tongue.

Once again, you have to pull him back so you can actually get a word in edgewise. “Bro, wait, what. Are you saying, like.” You swallow hard. “Sex?”

“Yes, John,” and bless him, he only sounds half-exasperated right now, “I mean sex. I want to fuck myself stupid on that beautiful fat cock of yours.”

“Oh.” He. Wow. Uh. So this. Sex. Is going to be a thing. That happens. That is happening right now, soon, because he rocks his hips against yours and you can feel him already hard, he wasn’t joking about needing you, and he makes a soft sound in his throat when you roll right back against him. “I, uh.” This is. You’re not exactly. How do you even describe this to him?

“I know.” He crushes his forehead to yours again, and you can feel his needy pants against your own open mouth as he tries to restrain himself from kissing your lips even more bruised than he’s already made them. And you know he knows, how he’s the only one to take you beyond mere kissing, how he’s the only one who’s ever turned you on like this, how he’s the only one you think you’ll ever go gay for. How you’re terrified at what it means. How you’re scared of yourself and your own reactions. How much you want him, want him to want you, want him to be happy. And, ultimately, how much you trust him. “I’ll lead.  You just follow. Hell, I’m gonna be doin’ all the work, you just get to kick back and relax while I wreck myself on your dick.”

He fists his hands in the front of your shirt, whirls you around, pushes you towards the bed, and you fall backwards, losing your balance, a swoop in your stomach before the mattress catches you and Bro sandwiches you between a body and a soft place. “No, seriously,” you mutter as Bro starts to kiss along your jaw, your throat, pushing your shirt up and into your armpits and trying to pull it off even as he doesn’t want his mouth off your skin, “what am I supposed to do?”

“Make pretty noises.” When Bro pulls back to get your shirt off, you catch his face; he’s grinning wide—predatory, even, with a little glint from one of his canines—and his shades have a flit of glare across them. He looks so dangerous like this, willing to tear you apart to get what he wants, and you’re terrified of his force right now. Is this it? You’ve been worried for a long time that you’re nothing more to him than a pretty little twinky sex toy, something to use as a pacifier for his oral fixation, and this just confirms it.

So you reach up, grab his jaw before he can kiss at your body again, and align your foreheads. That was nice. That was comforting. That was intimate. “No,” you tell him, and your voice is soft and husky and you’ve never heard yourself hoarse with that much need before. “I wanna do this right. You can—you can ride me,” and you’re sure your flush is going from the tips of your ears all the way down to your shoulders by now, “but I—I want you to keep—talking. I wanna be able to—move, and…” Are you getting your point across?

“Yeah,” Bro sighs out, and when he shakes his hand off your face, all he does is bury it in the crook of your neck and shoulder. “Yeah, I want you to—I wanna feel you pound up into me, want you to fingerfuck me open and take me hard…” How can he even say these things with a straight face? The points of his shades dig into your skin as he reaches down to palm over the bulge in your shorts, and your hips rocket straight up into his hand.

Sex. You and Bro. Are about to have sex. This still feels like it’s straight out of the Twilight Zone. “You really want this?”

“John,” and this time he is impatient, voice dripping with sin, “I woke up today with my dick in my hand and your name on my lips. I want you inside me. Right now.” You almost cry out when he takes his hand away, but the sound that comes out is a choked moan of relief when he takes his shades off. His pupils are blown wide with lust, gold rings around them pulling you in and holding you entranced. “Please. I’m serious. I need you to fuck me.”

“I don’t…” Oh, but you do, because your hands know where to move even while your brain is shutting down. Your thumb comes up to smooth over one of his cheekbones while your other hand goes to goose him. “Really know what to do?”

“I’ll show you.” And when he says it like that, you’re almost excited to try. He fumbles at the belt of your shorts, almost cinching the D-ring too tight before he gets the mess undone—“oh, I could have fun with this,” he chuckles, but he lets it fall to the floor—and you get the picture, start pushing up his shirt before he yanks it off himself. “You already know,” he reassures you, “fuck, John, you drive me fucking insane sometimes, you don’t even know you’re doing it but you do it—ahh, right there, fuck!”

All you did was reach up and pinch his bare nipple, but he’s already twitching over you. God, and he starts working your pants down, crawling away from you to do it, and you follow him up, sitting up even as you help him get your clothes off, not even realizing you’re getting naked as much as you know that you want him to make those noises again. “Like this?” You bring up your other hand, pinch lightly, twist a little.

“Ohmyfuckingchrist” comes out of Bro’s mouth in a rush of breath. “Get my pants off.”

You can see why he has to ask—his hands are shaking, and badly. He’s… falling apart. You’ve never seen him so discomposed. And of course you want to see him even worse, you want to see him obliterated, you want to see him destroyed and mindless and enslaved, and it’s because of you. It’s a powerful feeling. You hold his salvation in your hands. He holds his hips up while you pull his pants down from his hips, and he ends up shimmying out of them as gracefully as he can.

You’re—both naked. Okay. This has happened exactly three times, and while you get more comfortable each time, you’re still naked around the one person you feel most self-conscious around. Still, Bro doesn’t make you _feel_ naked, because he covers your body with his and kisses you like he needs you to breathe. He’s straddling your waist, and like this, your dicks are bumping together, the brush of skin against skin hot and smooth and almost too much to stand. “John,” Bro says into your mouth, “nightstand, right there in the first drawer, lube and condoms. Now.”

God you love his voice like this. You even like it when he orders you around. Of course, you’re not gonna give up the opportunity to tease him about it. “You like telling me what to do?”

“Fuck yeah, ‘specially when you _do it_ —good, give it here,” and he swipes them from your hand almost as fast as you can yank it away. “Let me—wanna suck your dick, get you lubed up for this…”

“And you think I’m gonna say no?” Still, you smile. He always asks, like he needs your permission, like he wants to double-check that your yes is as enthusiastic as possible. “C’mon,” you mutter, tangling your fingers in his hair and pushing his head down your body.

“Yeah, hand in my hair, fuck, John—“ His words get lost when his lips wrap around the head of your dick, subsumed in a mindless moan when the flavor of you hits his tongue. He loves this. He loves sucking you off, eating you out, planting hickies on every inch of bare skin he can find. He loves having things in his mouth. And he loves making noise, too, because you can feel it as he hums high in his throat, the reverberations traveling down your shaft along with his drool as he sloppily starts to suck you off.

“Bro, holy shit, you are way too good at this.” The way he gives you head always makes you a little dizzy, because of the way he swirls his tongue, moves his entire head so he can lick at you from every possible angle. And his tongue is so talented, curling, swiping, tracing, always hot and slick and leaving behind a cool trail of spittle before he licks you with an even more searing heat. For a few moments, it’s all you can do to close your eyes and let your head fall back on the pillows as your brain tries to keep track of his movements.

Then he lets your dick fall out of his mouth with a little popping sound, groaning against your skin and still lapping at you hungrily even as he gets more and more sloppy. “John, you taste—you have no fucking idea, I could suck you off all day, I really could, but I need—“

You look down at him blearily—it’s not just your crooked glasses that have you cross-eyed, it’s that your entire brain is too fogged over with blind desire to focus. And he’s—he’s. He’s reaching behind himself and you can’t tell _exactly_ what his hand is doing but it’s enough that _his hand is doing_. He’s. He’s fucking himself open. On his fingers. The bottle of lube is uncapped, on its side, dripping a little onto the sheets, and Bro doesn’t give a fuck, too busy licking up your precum and fingering himself. “Bro oh my God I’m going to have an aneurysm,” you moan.

“Mm, do I have a little voyeur here?” He looks up at you while his tongue darts out again, and you can feel a fizzle at the top of your skull turn into a surge in your dick after it rockets down your spine. “I’m. Fuck, remind me to get off in front of you, tie you down and don’t let you touch and put on a show—“

“Bro, shut up, you don’t want me to cum right now,” you gasp out. That mental image is going to be enough to last you the rest of your life. Nothing else needs to be in your spank bank. He doesn’t even need to do it for you to be able to visualize it. “I want—lemme touch, I wanna—“

He pushes off with his thighs, his other hand landing heavy next to your head, and he ends up half-crushing you as he comes up to kiss you, moving up your body to straddle around your waist. “Gimme your hand—“ and he’s too impatient, he moans and you don’t understand why until a sticky set of fingers wraps around your wrist _oh my god he is still wearing a pair of gloves why do you find this so fucking arousing_. He’s had gloved fingers, those gloved fingers, in his ass, and the lube is tacky and warm on your skin when he pulls your hand up to his mouth and—

God, his tongue is so warm against your fingers, two of them that he sucks in, and he licks, and hollows his cheeks, and his eyes roll back and he moans a little—“God damn, you have the best fetish,” you mutter, and he only laughs a little, a needy chuckle, and parts your fingers with his tongue to lick between them. “Want me to fuck your mouth with my fingers?” His eyelashes flutter, pale little moth wings in the afternoon sunlight. You crook your fingers, hold his tongue down, and he makes a deep noise in his chest that exhilarate-scares you with how needy it is. “Or do you want me to--?” Not sexy.

But Bro gets it. He nods instead, moving your fingers in his mouth, before sucking off. “Finger me. You’re not gonna hurt me,” he says to your inevitable hesitancy. “Just want you to feel.”

“With two?” He nods tersely. Really wants it, then. “How bad?”

“Please,” and you’ve never seen him look at you so earnestly, “please, John.”

You don’t have time or energy to be nervous right now, not when he’s depending on you to pleasure him out of his mind. Still, your hand shakes as you run it down his chest, leaving a trail of his drool behind, and his skin prickles under you as you trace his trail. Then you teasingly palm at his dick—he jumps, trying to thrust into your hand—which gives you just enough room to snake your hand between your bodies, fumble behind his balls—there’s his entrance, already slick—

When you press, he takes your two fingers with what seems like effortless ease. “God,” Bro chokes out above you, and you’ve never seen him this discomposed, this out of control—this _under your control_. Fuck this is hot. How did he do this? Two knuckles in, press forward with both fingertips, and he fucking screams. Screams like a little bitch. “Right there,” he says after a ragged breath, which means you don’t let up, you keep rubbing and pressing and crooking and when you thrust every single time you make sure to jab up against that spot. Every single time, his dick bobs; there’s a thin string of precum dripping from the tip, making his piercing gleam.

“Good?” You’re genuinely asking; this is your first time doing this. When he nods, trying to swallow, you know you’re doing it right. “Another?” A shakier nod this time. Bro leans forward, putting both hands on either side of your head, and you can feel the trembling in his arms as he holds himself up so you can work him open. “Like that?” you ask quietly between two sets of ragged breaths, folding in a third finger alongside the other two, keeping them tight in him.

“Spread ‘em.” When you do, he keens, the sound like a song. “Fuck, could fuck myself on your fingers, perfect, just like that—condom, John, gotta…” Every heaving breath he takes ripples every muscle from his shoulders to his hips. “Fuck, stop, don’t wanna lose it, fuck…”

Stop as in--? You stop, he moves up, your fingers slip out, he whines, and you almost feel bad for a moment before you realize he’s ripping into a condom wrapper. “Teeth, really?”

“What? My hand’s slippery.” Still, the condom comes out unscathed, a stupid-looking thing and you hate it until Bro starts smoothing it down your cock. It’s clinging, smooth, and his spit still shining on your dick makes everything move a little easier. “Let me do this,” he murmurs to you. “Let me—“

“Do it,” you tell him, “do it do it do it,” you need it just as badly as he does, you feel like you’re going to explode if he doesn’t do something soon. He takes your cock, holds it just as he wants it, and his entire body is poised above you, and he lets some of the tension go out of his thighs and his entrance is right up against the head of your dick—

And he _gives_ , just like that, he takes you in, and he makes a delightful little choking-on-nothing noise as he puts his hands on your chest to steady himself as he sinks onto you. God, and he’s tight, nothing but clenching heat around you, smoothed-out movements from lube and drool and precum. He’s a vision as he does this, his teeth clenched even as he’s trying to smile, eyes shut but eyelashes trembling, fingers curling in as he sinks further, and further, and further, until there’s nothing more to take and he lets out a shaky breath and lets himself fall a little and you feel so _deep_ in him, you’re _inside_ him, you’re the same body, trying to work with boundaries is stupid and it’s not working. “I’m fucking inside you, Bro,” you whisper, your voice trembling out of your control.

“Yeah,” he breathes right back. He loses his balance, falls forward, and your arms come up to wrap around his back, even as it moves your cock in him, even as his dick gets trapped up against your stomach; the hard ring of his piercing nestles in your trail. He’s stupidly intimate with you, still trying to kiss you with his mouth sloppy and his tongue too eager even while he twitches around you and tries to adjust. “Yeah, I’m.”

“God you’re so tight,” comes out of your mouth, almost as if his kisses are drawing it out of you.

He rolls his hips; it changes pressure if not depth, and it makes both of you take in a little gasp. “Been a while,” he tells you.

“Good?” You’re genuinely asking.

He props himself back up on his hands, trying to sit up again, and from the look on his face, he can feel, just like you can, every single shift of your dick in him while he moves. “Real fuckin’ good,” he tells you. “Your cock is fuckin’ perfect.” His thighs tense; he draws off, then lets himself drop so you’re buried in him again. “Oh my god can I just fuck myself on you forever.”

“No, wait, go back.” When he’s sitting up like this, you can run your hands down the perfectly sculpted muscles of his chest, his abs, feel how tight and lithe his body is under his smooth, soft skin. He does as you say, and your hands wander further down, ignoring his throbbing boner to run your palms over his hips, his tensed thighs. “Stay like this, I wanna—“ Will this even work? Even though you don’t really know what you’re doing, your body certainly seems to have an idea, because your cock wants to be balls-deep in him again, so you thrust, up, and—

“OhmygodJohn. Johndothatagainohfuck.” His hands come back to clench at your own thighs, leaving fingerprint bruises from where he grips so hard.

“Hold yourself up, and I’m gonna—“ You thrust again, and his adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he moans hungrily. Again, and his eyes fly open, sparks of gold searing straight into you, and it’s almost too much, the sensation and the closeness and you feel like you might crest and you have to close your own eyes and concentrate, hard, to hold it back.

“Fuck,” Bro chokes out. He doesn’t seem to really know what to do with his body; it’s moving out of his control, his cock bobbing every time you move in him, his hands trying to grasp at everything he can. You reach out, thread your fingers with his, hold your hands down on his hips so he has something to hold onto. “I could feel that, god, your whole dick just _pulsed_ —“

His voice is low and raspy, lustful in a way you’d never anticipated. “Shut up,” you tell him, because there’s no way you’re going to be able to hold it, not when he’s talking to you like that. “No, don’t,” you take it back, but he has to know, you’re a teenager and this is the first time you’ve ever had sex so what did he think was going to happen?

“Just—fuck me,” and Bro’s so desperate that it actually aches somewhere deep in your chest to see him like this, emotionally flayed open and laid bare in more than just appearance. “Need it, c’mon, hard ‘s you can.”

You drive up. And up and up and up. Over and over and over, hips snapping so fast, out of your control. His entire body swallows, swallows you in, swallows down sounds, and you want to fuck it all out of him, pound into him until he gives it all up for you, and then he’s yelling out the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard as he jets without you even having to touch him, thick spurts of cum landing in warm, white streaks over your chest and stomach.

His everything clenches when he does that, every muscle in his abs, everything around your cock, and it makes it hard to move but you don’t want to, you just want to bury yourself in him and never move and never get out and you can feel it wrecking you before it comes and then you’re gone, nails scraping at the backs of his hands even as he holds onto you for dear life as you flood the condom, something like a howl stuck in your throat.

It ends with both of you breathing hard, sticky with lube and sex-sweat and spit and all manner of gross things you don’t want to think about. Bro pulls off, with a soft little sound spilling off his lips, and he must know you’re too far gone to even be mentally present, because even with shaking fingers he pulls off the condom, knots it, flings it somewhere you don’t have to think about. “Sorry,” you mutter, but you couldn’t move if you tried, system overload, fatal error, problem exists between brain and penis, _oh my god_ he’s leaning over and his _tongue_ is out and he’s _licking up his cum_ you could _kill_ him as you spurt again pathetically and he just licks this up as well.

“Shut up,” he says back at you lovingly, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he cleans the corner of it. Of course, he proceeds to flop on you, now that you’re clean from his tongue bath.

And he is heavy. Not good heavy, but crushing the breath out of you heavy. “Need to breathe,” you squeak out.

“Breathing is for pussies.” Still, he rolls off, still absurdly affectionate and trying to press against you in every way possible.

Maybe it’s more overwhelming for you now that you can breathe. You suck in huge gulps of oxygen, trying to get your entire everything back under control, and yet Bro’s already so calm he’s half-asleep. “I just.” Yes, Egbert, babble at yourself, that’s real sexy. “That was.”

Bro looks up from where his face is smashed into your armpit. “First time?”

“Uh.” You don’t know what to say that doesn’t make you sound like a loser. “Yes?”

“Coulda fooled me.” He nuzzles back into you, nose in your armpit hair.

“Ew, get out of there!” You halfheartedly shove at him, giggling at how much it tickles, and it just ends with you and Bro curled around each other, parentheses with legs tangling and breaths mingling as your foreheads touch and your hands fall open together, him pressed against the wall and you nearly falling off the edge of the mattress. “I’m,” you try to tell him.

“Perfect,” Bro mumbles. When you open your eyes, you can see that he’s wearing the same half-lidded expression you are.

A dull kind of spark lights up in your chest and makes your heart go a little sideways. “I mean, was it…?”

He knows all the words you want to jam into the space before that question mark. “Just what I needed.”

“Good.” Because you feel the same way. Somehow, and you don’t want to know the mechanics of it, but Bro always seems to know what you need before you do. You’re exhilarated-exhausted and fuck-dazed and something under your skin is alight and shining out and you feel like you’re radiating feelings right now.

All your stomach wants to radiate is hunger, apparently, because the most embarrassing growl fills the space. “Dude,” Bro tells you, smiling as he flicks your stomach.

You flick him right back in the shoulder. “What? I’m hungry. Last time I ate was, like, fifteen minutes ago.”

“You are so fucking greedy,” Bro grumbles. He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, because he drops a kiss on your forehead before he literally rolls over you to get out of bed. “Pancakes?”

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Pancakes,” he tells you, shimmying into his pants and pretty much nothing else. God, seeing his ginger trail just makes you want to touch him again. “Lost-my-virginity breakfast. Duhhhhh. Bacon and eggs, coffee, whatever. Or we could go to Denny’s.” He reaches down to tousle your hair. “Maybe not. You look like you just got fucked.”

“Fuck you.”

“Again?” He chuckles down at you, throwing your boxers up at you on the bed. “Listen, I get that you’re a teenager and all, but really, John, you gotta slow down.”

You sock him in the face with your pillow.


	8. Restraint

“Move your arms for me.”

“I can’t.”

“Good.” Bro grins up from around your knees, tucking in the loose end of the rope. It’s nice and smooth,  nothing to scratch against your wrists, but it’s absolutely unyielding. “Boy Scouts,” he explains. Of course. Your fingers clench and unclench uselessly at your sides, your hands pinned against the back legs of this chair. “Gonna work on your shoulders now. Tell me if it’s too tight.”

“Yeah.” You’re already a little breathless. It hurts, and not just in your aching muscles, that you can’t touch Bro right now. It’s hard, and not just emotionally, that he’s doing this to you. Because you know what’s coming.

After he watched your eyes on him for long enough, he started to realize—you love watching him. You love keeping eye contact, tracing every movement of his body, watch as he works himself into a frenzy. And so today, he kissed you hello so sweetly you thought you were going to melt(!), held your hand as he led you back to his bedroom(!!), and practically got on his knees in front of you while you sat, nearly begging to tie you down(!!!). Were you really going to say no? The way he threads the rope across your bare torso, you think he might have done this before, but he keeps asking for reassurance. “Still good?”

“Mmhmm.” You feel… constricted. Restrained. The harness he’s making from the ropes fans out like a butterfly, three main strands cutting close to your neck, across your shoulders, hugging under your deltoids. Over your breastbone, Bro’s weaving the nylon into fancy knots, and you know they’re not gonna budge for anything. “Why not my pants?”

“I got plans for you, kid.” But the way he says it so low into your ear, you know he’s not deliberately teasing you. “I wanna watch you get desperate while you watch me.”

“I’m desperate right now, asshole,” you tell him, nearly breathless with anticipation. “C’mon, can’t you just—“

He kisses you, the pressure of his mouth against yours hot and steady. You want to reach up, cradle his face, but your hands flail as your strength hits up against the ropes you can’t budge. When his tongue presses into your mouth, you open for him willingly, moaning as he tastes behind your teeth. “All good things to those who wait,” he promises you.

Good God you’re going to strain through your shorts at this point. “Sick of waiting,” you tell him petulantly, even as he climbs into your lap.

“I know,” he murmurs. As he finishes tying the last knots, he’s practically straddling your lap to reach around the back of the chair, kissing at your neck even as he looks down to make sure he’s getting everything right. His shades cut into the corner of your jaw, but you’re not complaining. “Shrug for me.”

“I can’t.”

“Perfect.” You’ve never heard such a perverted purr. As soon as he moves off of you, you try to kick off the floor; the chair tips under you, and you nearly lose your balance and plant face-first, but Bro’s there, a strong hand keeping you from falling forward and putting the chair back to where it belongs. “Stay,” he says, the one syllable ringing with command.

“Make me.”

“Oh, you’re gonna be immobilized,” he promises you. “So turned on you can’t even move.”

Just because you’re held down doesn’t mean you can’t be an asshole. You arch an eyebrow at him over your glasses. “When?”

“Would you shut up, I’m not exactly good at this but I’m trying, damn it.” When Bro moves away from you and ends up in the middle of the room, he seems tense, but maybe it’s because he’s outlined against the curtains dimming the hot Texas afternoon sun. Perfectly dim in here, and your eyes take him in hungrily—you’re left with nothing else to do but stare. “I’m gonna blow your mind,” and you don’t know if he’s trying to threaten you or reassure himself.

The music starts, and you already feel something tightening in your gut. Fuck, he has such good taste, and this is a song that has the sound of seething in it, gasped breaths from between clenched teeth, sex-sweat drenching your skin, all of it in the backbeat reverberating through the room and down your spine. “What’s this?”

“Puscifer.” Sounds disgusting. “The Undertaker. Pay attention, kid.” He takes off his shades and cap, already more naked now than most people see him, ever—and when his golden eyes come up to capture yours, you never want them to let you go. Still, that’s not all of him there is to look at. He’s gorgeous, so beautiful it makes your mouth water to watch him, and when he holds his arms languidly over his head and just barely rolls his hips it’s already starting to drive you insane.

“Hhhhhhhh,” is roughly the aroused sound that comes out of your mouth—with every undulation, you follow the movement from his shoulders down to his abs, watching the swivel in his hips, the tightening of his ass, the tension in his legs as he keeps his movements smooth. You’re starting to understand why it’s called a strip _tease_ , because there’s nothing you want more right now than for Bro to just get his pants off and start jerking himself stupid. Your glasses might already be fogging up, or maybe you just can’t see straight because you need him so badly.

“No aneurysms yet,” Bro says, but his voice is warm and teasing. He turns his back to you, but only so he can start taking his shirt off. Shit, and look at his back as he does that, every single muscle standing out in relief as he strips, and his shirt ends up in the corner of the room when he comes back to face you. Look at the way he breathes, how his chest moves, how it ends with a clench in his stomach, and you’re sure you can’t be any harder but you prove yourself wrong with every passing second. “Talk to me.”

“God would you just fucking strip already and start—if you’re going to,” tumbles out of your mouth in a rush. Of course, you’re still such a little weenie that you elide over the stuff that makes you uncomfortable to say, but he needs to know how bad you want it.

Bro just chuckles at you. “Patience.” He is thoroughly enjoying this, isn’t he. As much as he’s called you a voyeur, he’s an exhibitionist, loves the feel of your gaze on him if the way he knows how to direct it is any indication. Your eyes are fixated on his hands, the articulation in his fingers, as he deliberately undoes the button of his jeans, thrusts forward even as he unzips, and you can see the outline of his cock already but you can’t really see it and you need to see it and you might make a needy sound in your throat as he teases you again, turning around and messing with his belt loops. “I’m getting there.”

“I’m gonna die first.” Your brain’s going to melt out of your ears and your heart is going to explode out of your chest and there’s going to be nothing left but a puddle of John on this chair. “Fuck,” you whisper, because there he goes, moving his pants off his legs and only fumbling a little as he kicks them off his ankles. His orange briefs should repulse you, but they just stand in contrast to his skin, outlining his ass, that perfect ass that you just want to cup in your hands and bite and slide your fingers in and fuck him, fuck him, “fuck you, fuck you, oh my god.”

“Not done yet, Johnny.” Oh no, oh fuck, and he turns around—there’s a tiny darkened splotch at the end of the bulge in his briefs, oh God, that’s pre, he’s as turned on by this as you are—and practically crawls into your lap, your spread legs, and his hardness bumps up against your own through three layers of clothes and you wish it was nothing at all because you need friction but not the harsh chafe of cotton and denim the soft sweat-slickness of his skin and you need it now. You buck up all the same, especially as the heat of Bro’s forearms lands on the meat of your shoulders, as his mouth descends so close to yours, but not close enough, even as you tilt your head up all he does is keep his lips inches from you and tease you with the heat of his breath. “Gloves?”

“On,” you moan weakly under him. He rolls his hips, making you cry out, and that roll just means he’s moving his entire body against you, practically pressing your face into his neck, down his chest, to the start of his trail, almost to the waistband of his boxers, and all you want to do is reach out with your tongue and push down with your head until you can lick him, even though the fabric—something, anything, would be better than nothing at all.

He takes it away from you again and you choke down a high, embarrassing needy sound. “Kinky little fuck,” he murmurs appreciatively, smiling a little, and you love the way his canine just barely bites into his lower lip when he does that. Oh, God, and his hands smooth down his front, under his briefs, teasing you by thinking he’s going to pull down and show you his cock god do you need to see it perfectly hard with precum beading at the tip and making his piercing glisten your mouth is watering so badly that you’re drooling down your chin by now and you don’t even care. Not if it will get you what you want. “Say it.”

“Please.” You’re not beyond begging. Of course, he turns around to do it, leaning over and nearly touching his toes as he pushes down his underwear—god you can see his, his entrance, his raphe, fuck how do you put into words how badly you need to fuck him right now after that one and only time? “Bro oh my God,” you mutter helplessly. His entire body, bare in front of you, and you can’t do anything but stare and drool as he holds it away from you, shows off for you.

He turns, and yes, his front, chiseled, perfect, hipbones, that dimple in his ass, the way his stomach tightens as his cock bobs, pulses going through his whole body. As turned on as you are by this. “How—“ He has to swallow first, his mouth is so dry. “How do you want me?”

“I don’t…” You’re too light-headed to put a coherent sentence together. “How do you normally?”

Bro climbs into your lap again—as if he needs the body heat—and you can feel a lingering tremble under his skin. He’s so hot against you; when you roll up, he makes a little choked sound, then lays his hand, hot and heavy, on your throat. Not choking, just telling you wordlessly to cut it out or he’s going to lose his self-control. “Kinda… on my back.” So he’s having the same articulation problems as you are. “Legs spread.”

His forehead falls down to yours. This is good. This is intimate. This is nice. It’s soothing in the middle of so much unresolved sexual tension, unrestrained and frightening lust. “Like that,” you tell him. “But sitting back against the wall. I want to see—everything.” You’re flushing, you can feel it.

Bro just kisses the blush out of your skin, laying his lips in a gentle line from the corner of your jaw to the start of the first set of ropes at the base of your neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll…”

You nudge him off of you as best you can, but it also ends up using your hips, meaning that he groans again at the feel of the bulge in your pants bumping up against his dick. “And just… talk, okay? I need to know—what you’re thinking…”

“Yeah.” His voice is ragged, harsh, and you know it’s because he needs and he wants. “Let me just…” Bro seems to marshal all the willpower he has to peel himself away from you, back up until the backs of his knees hit up against the mattress, and flop backwards. “Like…?”

“Just like that,” you reassure him. He’s sitting up, legs splayed so you can see—everything, fucking everything, and you can tell it’s taking everything he has to keep from touching himself. Is he waiting for you? While you have eye contact, you nod at him tersely.

He nods right back—waiting on you, then—and rests his left hand on the inside of his thigh, his right coming to close around his cock. He makes one light, teasing stroke, and the noise that bellows out of his chest is so desperate you marvel that he doesn’t lose it then and there. God, you can see his balls tighten when he does this, you can tell how close he is, how much this is turning him on. “Let me.”

Wait. Wait wait wait. So he bound you, but he still wants you to dictate his movements? Oh, this is torture. For both of you. This way, you get to pull the strings, just like he was doing with you. It’s delectable, the slow, gradual build-up to the inevitable crash and burn, and you can feel it fizzle under your skin as you stifle under the body heat crowding the room. “Not yet,” you say, and his hands start shaking as he tries to hold himself still. “Tell me what—what you’re thinking.”

“You.” It’s so effortless; you love how his adam’s apple bobs when he says it. His head falls back, skull knocking against the wall, and his eyes close as he gives another slow, slowslowslow stroke from base to tip. “The scratches you leave on my back. Can feel ‘em for days.”

“And?” You’ve gone from drooling to cotton-mouth, so dry you have to swallow in order not to squeak.

Every time his fist gives a slow pump, he takes a shuddering breath like he’s surfacing from a hundred feet down; it ripples from his shoulders to his hips, and you’re fascinated with the way his abs tense, not just from his breathing but from touching himself. Bro. Bro is. He’s. He’s touching himself. For you. Because he knows you like it. “The way you sound. God, your voice is fantastic, makin’ you scream for me…”

“Yeah,” you breathe. You don’t know where to keep your eyes—everything is so fascinating to you, Bro laying himself bare and touching himself for your eyes only, putting on a show just for you. “What about—“ and you flush again, this is so embarrassing—“the way I taste?”

Bro makes a noise that scares you with how much it needs, almost as if it grinds up from his very bones to spill from his lips and tell you how much he wants. “Fuckin’ unbelievable,” he moans, and he even licks his lips, as if he wishes he had his mouth on you right now. His hand has worked up to a steady, if slow and deliberate, pace of stroking his cock, and his other hand—his other hand.

“Holy shit,” his other hand is trailing up his chest and tweaking a nipple and his fingers trace a path up his throat until he plunges them into his mouth. “Gotta have something in your mouth,” you tease him.

He just nods at you. Both of you know how much he loves getting his mouth on anything and everything. He sucks on those two fingers, hollowing his cheeks, looking almost pornographic, and you pray to everything that his mouth will end up like that on your cock soon, he’s so good at it, he loves it, and he makes a little moaning sound even as he lubes up his fingers. “Please,” he gasps out past his own fingertips, and you can watch him bite down on them a little as his pace edges just a little faster, “wanna.”

Not like that. You’re enjoying the sight before you as it is right now. Bro’s entire body is sex-flushed, the muscles in his abs and thighs tightening as he tries to stave it off. And he’s doing this thing—that’s how he does it, that’s how he touches himself, he catches his piercing on every upstroke and moves it just the slightest bit and it makes him moan with every exhale. “Wanna what?” you ask him.

“Wanna get inside,” he mumbles, still around his fingers. Drool’s spilling out of his mouth. He’s deliciously desperate right now, and you’d have him no other way. “Let me, wanna fuck myself open, please, John, I need…”

Oh my God. He’s. He’s going to. Do that. In front of you. Oh God. “I’m gonna have a stroke.” You felt the same way the first time—the only time—the two of you. Did it. You watched him finger himself open, and you thought you were going to explode.

“You gonna blow in your pants?” Apparently he’s not too far gone that he can’t mock you right back. His head straightens a little, his eyes open just enough to catch yours, and his half-lidded look isn’t helping things, the intense but dazed way he looks over at you. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a sucking pop, spreads his legs a little more, gets his knees up by digging his heels into the mattress, gives his balls a firm squeeze, moves even further back—

“Bro don’t fucking tease just do it,” spills out before you can take it back. You’re just as worked up by this as he is, getting to look but not touch, and your neglected cock is pulsing in your pants as you watch this little show.

He doesn’t say anything in return, just rubs his fingertip up against his entrance and how does he take it so easily? His body is fascinating to you, because you don’t think you can do these things with yours—and he plunges in with that finger, squeezes his cock a little harder in his hand, and he makes a little noise of frustration as he pushes, pushes, until he can’t take any more. “John,” he says in a soft little voice that makes your heart try to leap out of your chest.

“Bro,” you tell him. He needs to know that you’re still here. “Just like that, oh my God.”

“John,” he says again, as if by saying your name he’s invoking the will of a higher power. You are his god now, in this moment. “Wish it was you. Working me open.”

“Wish it was,” you agree breathlessly.

“Can’t… always find it,” he gasps out, starting to thrust with just that one finger even as he keeps jacking himself off. “Better when you did it.”

You let yourself smile a little. Sometimes, you do things right, and it makes a fierce sort of joy rise in your chest and flood your senses. “You need me?”

“Like you don’t even know,” he whispers back. “Need you to kiss me and touch me and fuck me—fuck me, John, oh my god,” his eyes fly open blindly and his mouth falls open and you know, he found it, he’s lighting up, you can see it in the sudden tension in his arms, the way his toes start to curl in.

He’s a vision. “Another,” you tell him, voice low.

He just makes a desperate noise back, pushing in that second finger as fast as he can, hand on his cock faster. “You’re gonna drive me insane one of these days, John,” he tells you—oh, good, he’s at that point where he just starts babbling. “Pretty little thing with the perfect cock and you taste so good and I just want to bruise you and hold your hand when we’re out in public and show everyone that you’re mine, _mine_ , no one else’s…”

That word goes straight to your cock; your all of you twitches with the force of it. “And you’re mine,” you tell him.

“Yours,” he echoes mindlessly. He’s plunging with those two fingers and jacking himself off like he means it. Close. “Let me.”

“Why?” It’s too much fun to hold the power—even if you feel like your dick’s going to rocket off with the pressure lingering in your crotch.

“Need to,” he gasps out. “I’ll.” He swallows, still rhythmically working himself open, fisting his cock. “Jack you off.”

“Not enough.”

He knows. He makes a keening sound, his forearms tensing, but still he holds it back, even as you see the surge work through his whole body. His fingers still for a few seconds, his hand clamps down at the base of his cock, but he still doesn’t. “Blow you,” he promises. “Let me suck you off, I’ll… let me…”

Mindless. Giving in. “Yes,” you tell him. “Cum, do it, wanna see—“

He makes a yelling sort of hollering noise when it hits him. Jets of cum paint the knuckles of his hand before he cups his palm around his piercing to catch the rest. His toes curl in, his thighs and abs tense, his throat works in an endless swallow, and still it comes. “John,” you realize he’s bellowing, and even as he rides out the aftershocks he’s murmuring it constantly under his breath, “JohnJohnJohnJohn…”

Beautiful. Blissed. “Clean up,” you tell him, and you’re surprised at how dark your voice is.

He obeys without question, his pink tongue darting out to lick up every spatter of white cum across the black leather of his glove. God, that’s hot, and your cock twitches nearly painfully as he builds you up. “Fuck,” Bro whispers, shuddering.

“Bro,” you interrupt him. There’s a hard edge to your voice that you don’t exactly like. “I’m gonna fucking explode, I swear, you gotta—“

Even though he’s shaky and trembling from the force of his own orgasm, he still picks himself up, holds himself together, crawls off the bed and towards you. His eyes are on you the whole time, not any less lust-blown now that he’s gotten off. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises you, and the way he words it, you’re not entirely sure he just means this moment, these circumstances.

His palms, gloves damp with spit, come up to frame your hips even as he kneels between your legs. When his hand moves down to massage against the obvious bulge, you cry out and thrash; he has to catch you from toppling yourself backwards. “Please,” you gasp down at him. “Don’t fuck around, I need—“

“I got you,” he murmurs, pressing his face against your stomach and leaving sticky, sloppy kisses on the side of your trail. His fingers ghost instead of pressing, coming to undo your pants, and you willingly hold your hips up so he can pull down and your dick springs up greedy for attention and he just breathes down at it to shush it and you can’t even complain because even that makes you feel like you’re about to blow.

“Don’t tease,” you tell him—too late, because he’s just pinning your hips to the chair and letting his breath come out to fog hotly around the head of your cock and you want to push up into the hot slickness of the inside of his mouth the greedy press of his tongue against your shaft and he’s teasing and you can’t stand it you feel like you could blow—

You blow. It’s embarrassing, stripes painting Bro’s face, and his tongue is _lolling out of his mouth_ so he can actually catch it, and his hand comes to catch the rest to get it in his mouth and you just want to cum _again_ at the thought that he is _eating your cum_ , that every time he fucking _eats your cum_. And you’re still hard, and you still need, you need so badly, and he knows. “What do good boys say?”

“Fuck you.” Running joke. “Please.”

His mouth sinks down, sloppy and greedy and you wouldn’t change it for anything. Your cock makes pornographic schlicking noises against the insides of his cheeks and he doesn’t try to stop it, drooling down onto your shaft as he concentrates on flicking his tongue around the head, lapping up cum from your slit, and he moans, low and needy in his chest, and his eyes roll back in his head as he continues to work on you.

It almost hurts with how good it is, so soon after you crested and you feel like you might again if he keeps doing that and then he _opens his throat_ and _swallows you down_ and it’s maddening constricting hot and tight and wet and he won’t let you move because he holds your hips down “please close love you so close…”

He pops off. You could kill him. Thank God you’re still restrained, or you might strangle him. “Stay,” he tells you, hoarse from just having a cock up against his vocal cords—or maybe he needs this as much as you do. He undoes the ties around your wrists, the mess of knots coming undone with a simple tug at the end of the rope, and you want to lunge forward and thrust into his mouth but your shoulders are still pinned in place. “In my hair,” he says.

Oh. Oh, fuck. He’s. He’s going to let you. You thread them through shakily, and he laps at your dick delicately. You tug a little, and he plants sucking kisses along the shaft, bringing your pulse to the surface and soothing it back down with the tip of his tongue. You pull, hard, and he sinks down on you again, slurping loudly and enthusiastically. Harder, and he takes you deeper. You shove his head down and he moves with you willingly. “Bro I’m gonna holy _shit_ …”

He draws back while you pulse into his mouth, flooding down his throat with a second round—not as much, but just as powerful, and he—he swallows, he fucking swallows every drop, with a satisfied rumbling deep in his chest like a cat at the cream. He licks you clean from the inside of his mouth, the feel searing and gentle all at once, and when he lets you drop, he just cradles his face against your hip. You comb your fingers through his hair, using your other thumb to smooth across his cheekbone. “Love you,” he mumbles into your skin.

This shouldn’t be a big deal to you. All the same, you prickle at the words. Hearing Bro say it to you, in moments that aren’t sex, is powerful in a way you never anticipated. “C’mere, you dope,” you tell him gently, tugging up briefly at his hair.

He gets the picture, climbing near-drowsily into your lap to rest against you, exhausted. Both of you are sticky with sweat and drying spit, disgusting really, but he still nuzzles his face against yours, getting his nose into your ear. His hands trace his bondage, then reach around to undo this as easily as he let your hands go free. “Good?”

You have to think about it for a minute. “Intense,” you settle on. It’s easier to hold him now that your shoulders are free. He’s just as wrecked as you; you don’t know how much comfort you’ll be.

“Shoulda just let you sit and stew,” he mumbles. “Test your self-control.”

You snort out a little laugh. “I woulda snapped. Right when you said you—you wished it was me.”

“Woulda fucked me stupid?” You actually laugh this time, nodding into his shoulder. “You have no idea. I swear, it’s like everything you ever do makes me feel that way.”

“Always need me?” You goose him.

He’s the one laughing this time. “You have no idea how bad I wanna fuck you.”

Oh. The laughter definitely stops. Your hands freeze on him. You’re suddenly aware of how naked you are, even under his body, covered with his heat. “You, uh.” You swallow. “Wanna do that. To me?”

“One of these days.” His voice is still warm, soothing. He licks playfully at the shell of your ear, kisses at your earlobe. “Make sure you can be as loud as you want. Eat you out and finger you open and make you beg for it.”

“Oh.” When he puts it like that, it doesn’t sound so scary. You’ve let him put his fingers in you. This is just… something more. A lot more. And it means a lot more to you. “I mean.” How do you explain this? “I’ve never really. Um.”

“I know.” He knows he’s the first guy you’ve ever been with, probably the only guy you’d ever want to be with. “Don’t worry. I love you. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

There’s those words again, the ones that make you freeze because they mean too much and make your chest ache with all the things you’re feeling. “Love you,” you mumble out.

“Good,” he says possessively. He holds you so close that the two of you end up tumbling out of the chair and onto the floor. You grab the blanket down from his bed to cover the two of you, keep from being quite so naked. The rest of the afternoon gets whittled away with pizza bagel bites and Mario Kart and occasional kisses and you don’t want to leave but Dave will be back soon and you can’t be found here, especially in this state. “I’ll text,” he promises you.

He does. Except, this time, every single one ends with a heart. And he’s the one that calls you the dork, jesus.


	9. Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as in finally i finished this wip and wrote this chapter

Graduation is a long time coming. It’s also stressful as fuck. Yeah, Jade is valedictorian, but that doesn’t mean the other three of you don’t have work to do—you’re performing a piano solo, for fuck’s sake! It means weeks of practice, and that’s on top of all the other extracurricular activities you have going on. To top it all off, you have your last round of exams the week before you’re supposed to walk, and though by this point it’s clear you’re going to graduate high school, you’d much rather keep your grades up so you can get in better housing at UT-Austin.

Which, in itself, was a long, hard decision. You like Texas. More to the point, you’re fond of the Striders, and going to school down there will definitely keep you in Bro’s orbit. It’s probably going to be hard on your dad, though. Even with transportalizer technology, you won’t be walking back to your childhood home once classes get out. Dad’s probably going to feel lonely in that big house just by himself. Still, you’re going to be (hopefully) rooming with Dave if everything works out, and while Dad was distrustful of your best friend at first, they’ve really seemed to be getting along within the past few months. (Takes a load off your shoulders.)

It’s not just graduation, though. It’s everything else on top of it. Yes, you don’t have classes any more, but there’s parties, and paperwork to do for school, and entrance exams to place in your classes (you hope to God your Spanish is good enough to get you out of mandatory foreign language credits). And throughout it all, you’re tantalizingly close—but unable to close the gap.

Bro’s there at graduation. Focused on Dave, of course, just like your dad’s focused on you, but something in you aches at him being so close but absolutely untouchable. (That night was the first time you were desperate enough to finger yourself. You shot off so hard your jizz splattered your glasses and it still wasn’t enough.) He acts like he’s in the background of Dave’s graduation party, but he’s the one making the place move, filling the conference room of their apartment complex with some of the most sicknasty backbeats you’ve ever heard. (He doesn’t even have to look at you for you to know that it’s all dedicated to John Egbert.) Dad extended both Striders an invitation to your graduation party, but you were the center of attention, and it was… a little weird. All you did was graduate from high school, not save the world, but people you barely remembered were congratulating you and giving you hundred-dollar checks and college survival kits. (Bro spent the entire time chatting with your dad. They seemed amiable enough. He looked at you once, and even through the shades it sent a jolt through your system that was hard to hide from Dave.)

All in all, it’s a few weeks between visits with Bro. And with every passing day, you feel like you’re about to go supernova. With all the stress, it was almost like whipping up a tornado, the whirlwind of excitement sucking you down and now, you hope, spitting you out in one piece. You’re almost waiting for the other shoe to drop, because everything’s been going so well recently—except, y’know. Not seeing the one person you want to see because otherwise your dad will find out what you’ve been up to for the past several months oh God do you not want that to happen.

Bro still texts. Not just to lament that he can’t booty call you, either. He asks what you’re up to. How you’re feeling about that killer calculus test you had to take online. Whether you got letters from UT, because Dave got some of his. It’s… pleasant. Nice. You’re not just a little sex toy, you guess. Still, you wish he’d get back to… how things were. You miss it. So much. Miss him. Miss the feel of his hands and the curl of his mouth when he smiles and that little throaty laugh when he gets his way and the touch of his tongue to yours and the eagerness in his eyes when he’s got you where he wants you.

But finally. Oh God finally. Finally there’s a day where you don’t have any parties. No exams to take. No orientations to attend. Nothing keeping Dave in the apartment. It’s not two seconds after Bro texts you that you’re pulling a fast one on your dad, throwing out some bullshit excuse about a get-together with some guys from band while you dial the coordinates to the Strider household and jet before he can get a clue.

Bro’s not there to greet you from the transportalizer. Doesn’t matter. This _es su casa_ , as he’s fond of saying. (No, your Spanish isn’t good enough to properly conjugate verbs and use the right pronouns, especially when you’re this excited about finally getting what you want.) You kick off your shoes, lose your socks. You’re already at the point of shrugging out of your shirt by the time you get to Bro’s room. It’s so hot in Houston—sometimes you forget, being in Washington with its 60-degree summers, that it’s already in the high 90s here in June.

You open the door like you own the place. Hell, you’ve spent enough time here that you could probably stake a claim to the Strider futon by now. “Bro, I swear to fuck,” you start babbling as you get tangled in your shirt. Goddamn, why are you always so clumsy around him? “It’s been, like.” A long time. “Too long.”

“Way too fuckin’ long,” gets muffled by the cotton of your shirt. While you can’t see, you can still hear, and by the sound of it, Bro’s rising from his computer chair, pushing it back into his desk—and then he pounces. Silent, swift, and you’re pinned against the wall with your arms above your head and stuck in your shirt while Bro’s hands run down your chest and settle at your abs. “Almost forgot what you felt like. Definitely forgot what you taste like.”

Bro’s gracious enough to help you out of your shirt—he isn’t wearing one either, and yet he’s still wearing his skinny jeans, even with the sweat beading at his shoulders. How hot does he keep this apartment? Hotter now that you’re in contact with Bro’s body heat, and it feels like you’re going to combust when he crushes you against the wall, chests sliding slick against one another. His tongue in your mouth feels like coming home; you push it back into his, but chase it where it came from, until the two of you are stroking at each other from inside your mouths and clacking your teeth together with your impatience. “Fuck,” you whisper, and he swallows that, too, hands roving like he doesn’t know where to touch first, and you’re much the same, eager to trace what you thought you had forgotten. “God, I could see you, you were right there and I still couldn’t touch, couldn’t do a damn thing…”

“I know,” Bro says back, his voice husky. He bites at your lip; you shudder, and he keeps ravishing down your chin, your neck, stopping to run the edge of his teeth along your jugular and you hitch in a breath and he chuckles, just like you remember. “That entire time, at Dave’s thing—“

“I knew it, I fucking knew it,” you crow, delighting in your small victory before Bro takes the threat out of his teeth and makes it a promise instead, biting down and sucking at the skin in his mouth and drawing out a moan from your throat that he can probably taste. “God, at graduation, I just—I hadn’t seen you in two weeks and it was hell, I had to—“ No. You don’t want him to know about that, and you bite your tongue to keep it from him.

You regret it immediately: Bro’s mouth unlatches, connects again, and you draw blood as he starts marking you with another hickey. You don’t care. You don’t care you don’t care you don’t care and it is so freeing because you don’t have class to go to, don’t have anyone to explain it to, except your dad and he’s not about to ask, is he? “Had to what, John?”

“I.” It’s hard for you to speak coherently at the best of times. It’s nigh impossible with Bro’s fingertips digging into your hips and his teeth digging into your shoulder. You scratch down his deltoids, drag your fingers down his biceps, and it just makes his whole body surge forward, his hips meeting yours and he’s hard already just like you and the friction is perfect, so perfect, how did the two of you hold out this long? “It was too much, I had to, I. I did it like. Like you—like you usually—“

Bro slows. Stops. No. He needs to keep going you’re craving his touch you want him so badly—and then you can feel his mouth quirk up against your skin, know he’s smiling that predatory grin. “God.” He just shakes his head, then drops down to lick up his latest mark on your skin, like that would soothe over it and make it like it had never happened. “God, you actually—wow. Shoulda told me before now—when was this?”

“Night after graduation.” You’re glad Bro connects the dots so easily; it saves you the embarrassment of having to stutter over the phrases yourself. As it is, your face is lit up—your entire body is flushed at this point, but he’d be able to tell, and you’d be absolutely mortified.

At first, you’re not sure what he’s doing with that information. But then Bro lets out this pleased little hum, and his hands move from just catching your hips in their greedy parentheses, back to slide in the pockets of your shorts and curl around your ass and squeeze, hard, and bring your hips up to his so he can slide his whole body along yours and create a delicious friction. “Needed it that bad, huh?” You nod, feeling like you’re about to die, and your only saving grace is that Bro can’t see the expression you’re wearing right now. “Had to fuck yourself on your own fingers. Goddamn, that’s _hot_ , John, holy shit, wish I had seen, wish I had been there—“

“You’ve—you’ve done—that—before, though. To me,” you remind him. Sure, maybe only a few times, but still, he has to know how it feels, he’s done it to you and you’ve watched him do it to himself before he encouraged you to finger him and now you just completed the circle.

“Not near fuckin’ enough,” Bro whispers desperate into your ear, tipping against you again. When you look down, you have no idea what’s keeping his pants on him, because he looks like he’s about to tent right out of them, he’s that eager to be doing this to you. “Let me. Let me, today, right now, I swear to fuck, John, I want to ruin you…”

It’s not just his boner up against yours, though, that’s giving you friction. His hands come out of your pockets, move under your shorts and boxers, actually cup your skin, oh God you hadn’t forgotten the heat or the size of his hands but you didn’t remember the feel of the leather of his gloves bare against you and it has you moaning as he kneads your ass, scratches across your hips. “Oh my God,” and you’re gripping onto his shoulders with shaking hands because he just catches your hard-on in the crease at the heel of his hand and moves that pressure from base to tip before he closes his grip around you and you’re lucky the wall is there to catch you because as it is you’re certain you just gave yourself a goose-egg from knocking your head back against it.

Bro loves using his mouth, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t good with his hands. This feels almost like how you started: shaky, shy afternoons when there were a lot of firsts, like the first time he jacked you off, the first time someone else touched you like that, and he’s still the only person to have touched you like that, like this, like he means it, and you’re too fogged over to process what it means. “Let me,” he whispers at you harshly, still waiting on an answer, and to punctuate it he brings up his other palm to cradle your balls, roll them in his hold.

“Fuck,” you drawl out, eyes sliding closed. You can’t make sense of the sensations and you feel like you’re drowning already, Houston muggy heat seeping into your lungs and making it hard for you to breathe. Or is that just Bro’s sex-sweat, mingling with your own and keeping things slick and steamy? Bro’s mouth is still at your neck, but—no, not now, this is, this is important, and you tug at his hair and now it’s him making the obscene noise that starts in his chest and ends with a quiver of his swollen, glossy lips.

He’s facing you now, and his hands have drastically slowed from working on you. His hair is already horribly mussed, even worse with your fingers pulling at it, and his brows are drawn over his shades. “John, I fucking missed you,” he starts babbling, and there’s an honesty there that you weren’t expecting, a shedding of all these false fronts and fake boundaries.

But there’s one that’s still up. Two, in fact. After all these months, you’re still not sure if you’re the one who’s allowed to do this, but one hand slips out of his hair, fingertips tracing the lines of Bro’s forehead, his brows, his cheekbones, before settling on the corner of his frames and tugging just right and he’s. That’s it. There’s nothing hiding his eyes from you, and they’re already alight with something you hardly dared to hope for.

Bro hardly keeps eye contact, though. It’s like he’s the shy one or something. (Maybe he is. You just took those off without his permission, and usually he’s the one to do it—was that okay? Did you overstep your bounds?) But no, he’s grinning like an idiot, shaking his head a little. “Dude, if you wanted the shades off, all you had to do was ask.”

“I know, but. Bro. This is.” You’re tripping over your words again. You just hope to God he doesn’t reciprocate and try to pull off your frames, because you actually need them to fucking see, and you want to see today. You want to see fucking everything. “This is important, okay, because I’m gonna say this and you’re gonna think I don’t mean it—“

“Shut up,” Bro says, but he’s being good-natured about it. He tilts forward, gets his mouth on yours again, and if that wasn’t going to be enough to quiet you, his hands start working on your sensitives again. “You’re such a fuckin’ dweeb,” in the same tone he uses for ‘I love you,’ and he starts biting at the very little unmarked space he’s left on your neck and shoulder.

“Oh God.” It’s like a storm crashing down on you. You’re adrift at sea and Bro’s pulling you under, an anchor to keep you steady and tangling in your legs to drag you down to your death. He rains kisses on you, his teeth marks lightning strikes, and each steady roll of his hips against yours is the long, drawn-out rumble of thunder—one you can feel reverberating in your own chest. “God, fuck, Bro. Fuck me.”

Bro hisses. “I thought I told you,” and his voice is definitely more savage now, “not to say shit you don’t mean.”

“I mean it.” Bro pauses again. He looks up at you, and with his eyes bare you can see all the thoughts he doesn’t usually show you: how incredulous he is at you right now, grateful and simultaneously bemused. It’s hard to talk to him when you can see how honest he is under all his usual bullshit, because you take solace there, too, talk to him in code and touch and never in words like this. “Fuck me,” and your voice is a low whisper.

He blinks. Blinks again. It’s like he’s actually surprised by this. “You’re serious, aren’t you.” You nod, a little more tersely than you’d like, and swallow around a sudden lump in your throat. “You’re nervous.” That part should go unsaid; your hand in his hair is trembling, and the other is weakly gripping his waist like he could tether you to Earth. “But you want it.”

You can’t hold his gaze any more. It’s too much, and your head drops down to his shoulder; when you breathe, you take in the scent of his body. As natural as your own, after all this time. You can’t think of anything to say. To reassure him, you push up into his hands, the hands that are still working on your cock, show him you haven’t flagged in the slightest, that you might have actually thought this through and you’re not flying by the seat of your pants.

“Holy shit.” You can fucking hear Bro smirking, and it’s so hot it makes you shiver. “It’s not even my birthday,” and with his joking tone you know he’s actually pleased at this turn of events. It makes you relax a little, knowing that this is making him happy. “Hail Satan.”

“Dude.” Okay, so his lighthearted ease with the situation is kind of infectious. Maybe this won’t be so onerous after all. You’ve done pretty much everything but this. “You did a pentagram and sold your soul to get at this ass, didn’t you.”

“You caught me.” Bro’s tongue catches in the divot between your collarbones, then runs along one of them, and it’s hot and slick and makes you go a little weak at the knees. “That’s how bad I want the booty.”

This is normal. This is okay. This is like what you remember, easygoing and pleasurable and making you spike up and nearly laugh with how good it feels. Bro peels you away from the wall, wheels you around and practically throws you down onto the bed, and the way you land knocks the wind out of you. His kisses don’t help, certainly, leaving you breathless, gasping for air. Between pants you know you’re trying to talk to him, trying to say everything you couldn’t over the past several weeks. “’m sorry,” comes out before the desperate collision of his hips rutting into yours.

“Don’t,” Bro says, “don’t do that shit, ‘s not your fault. Not like you did it on purpose, just. Fuck. Don’t do that ever again, ‘s fuckin’ unbearable…” His hands slip on your body, effortlessly fitting into the seams of your muscles, the cut of your bones.

It’s a testament to how long the two of you have been doing this that you don’t flinch or shy away when he starts working at your shorts. Your hands still shake when you bring them to the fly of his jeans, but not near as bad as they used to, and Bro barely has to help you before you frame his dick with your hand, trap it against his hip. His breathing is just as harsh as your own, now, and you watch his chest heave as he inhales, look at his teeth as they catch his lip and keep something from spilling out. “Just us,” you remind him, though even that makes a surge run through your gut, because what if—“right?” You need that reassurance.

“Yeah.” And there’s that smirk you’re used to. “Yeah, I’m gonna—make you fuckin’ scream for me.”

“Gotta earn it,” you remind him, though at this point there’s not much point. It’s inevitable, because no matter how much he manhandles you, his hands are notenough _notefuckingnough_ you need more _more moremoremore._ You feel out the piercing through the thin fabric of his boxers already smeared with pre, shift it just a little and he keens, loud and long. (Shit, you forgot about that. Not forgot—that’s the wrong word—but without it so evident it kind of slipped your mind. How is this supposed to work?)

Bro must have sensed your sudden stiffness, because he gets his hand back on your dick and you feel like you melt into the mattress with that first stroke. “I’m gonna ruin you.” With Bro, that tone isn’t a threat. It’s a promise. And it makes a spark go down your spine, starting at the base of your skull and making every hair on your head prickle before it jump-starts your heartbeat, settles as a flare in your gut, ends with your hips lifting from the bed and into his eager grip.

“Please,” you realize you’re gasping. Your fingers already feel deadened, and it’s a miracle that you can wrangle his dangle out of his boxers so you can fucking see it okay now you’re a little intimidated how could you have forgotten how fucking huge he is? (Not like you don’t have a point of comparison, he’s only a little bigger than you, but. Still. That’s going to be. He’s going to get that. _Uh._ No?) At this point, you don’t know what you’re begging for, but you’re asking all the same, and you shift his prince albert back and forth in his slit to try and give him even a fraction of the sensation he’s feeding you.

He hisses, sighs, his breath heating your skin. “John,” he bellows out, and you love that your name elides so softly into a moan like that in his mouth. “John, let me—“

“Do it.” He doesn’t even need to articulate at this point. He wants his mouth on you and fuck yes do you want it you’ve wanted it for weeks that alone would make this worth it even though it’s such a fucking tease.

“I said,” he mutters against your skin, trying to kiss his way down but he’s impatient, frantic, he nips more than he kisses and he leaves more space than mouthprints, “I said I would take my time with you, but you’re—fuck, you’re making it hard, I want to make this good, I know I can make this good for you but goddamn…”

Your fingers tangle in his hair as he moves down your body. To keep from feeling so bare, you shut your eyes. If you can’t see it, you’re not so embarrassed by it. You feel it all the more acutely, though, when his mouth fastens on your hipbone, starts sucking a purple mark there—and then Bro shifts you, not going where you thought he would and your dick _aches_ for his mouth and drips pathetically onto your own stomach as he gets his hands in the small of your back and encourages you to curl in on yourself and—

Okay that is _definitely_ not where you thought he was going but you are _so okay with it_ because his tongue swipes a broad swath across your balls, down lower to wet your taint, that feels so weird but his mouth is searing hot on your most sensitive flesh and you know where he’s going and you fucking _wail_ when he even _breathes_ on it right, fuck you’re twitching already and he has to know what this is doing to you. “Talk to me,” he whispers into your ass. (You knew it: Bro is the fucking Butthole Whisperer.)

Talk to him? It’s hard to even catch your breath. He’s got your hips cradled in his hands, holding them off the bed by sheer force of will, it seems like, but it means your legs are dangling awkwardly above you and your spine is bending a little too much and it’s kind of uncomfortable but for his tongue to be doing _that_ right _there_ makes it _totally worth it_. Besides, it’s not like he’s able to hear anything you’re saying, and the whole point of this exercise is to drive you insane and past the point of coherency. You practically howl, a low, sweet vowel sound that only drives deeper into your chest the more Bro works on you.

God, you need him so bad, and it seems like second nature to bring your hand to your dick and start accelerating the pace, but Bro sees it before you even notice you’re doing it, reaches out and traps your wrist down to the bed and your hips fall just that little bit and his mouth loses contact with you and you make an alarmed sound of loss. “This isn’t working.” He sounds just as disappointed as you.

“Don’t fucking stop.” You’ve never heard yourself so feral before, so demanding.

“Your mammaries are gyrating. You might wanna see to that.” How is he still so calm and collected when he just had his tongue in unmentionable places? “Got it,” he says suddenly, and you don’t see what he’s talking about before he moves your hand to behind your knee, gets it propped up, oh. Oh yes, you know this position, and he settles back down to where he was and it’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as that last little maneuver so there’s nothing to focus on but the pleasure and _holy shit_.

Bro’s mouth is heavenly. He knows it, and now so do you, because his tongue works in hot, heavy swipes across your—across you, spiraling in and then out again, licking over and over and over again and you swear you twitch every single fucking time. Your free hand goes down to grab at his hair—you have to tell him how good it is, can’t quite make it verbal because that would mean acknowledging, and fuck, Bro just moans.

And you can feel it _everywhere_. Because he’s trying to get in—inside—and it’s easy, well, easier than it used to be, and he slips and it’s slick and hot and oh so very _filthy_ and it just makes you yell out more obscenities than you were aware you knew. “God I want you,” comes out somewhere in that garbled mess.

When Bro disengages, it feels like he doesn’t want to. Like he could spend the rest of his life doing that dirty shit and be happy. “Same, fuck, so bad,” and he surges up your body and you’re scared for a second that he’s going to try and shove his tongue in your mouth and you don’t particularly want it there but it ends up on the side of your neck instead, the side without any marks. He’s rectifying that situation, though, nipping at you sharply and holding your skin between his teeth as his one hand pets your side and his other hand—what the hell is he doing, anyway?

Oh. Duh. He rears back from you, and for a second all you see is the lean plane of his chest, his abs, in the afternoon sunlight, made all the more impressive for the thin sheen of sweat on his body, the subtle glow of arousal under his skin. Your mouth goes a little dry. Bro uncaps the lube he just retrieved from his bedside table, smears it across his fingers. “Yes,” you realize you’re saying, “hell yes,” because you remember this, even though it was only a few times, remember how it feels, and while it may not be familiar it just makes the pleasure more potent.

The lube is actually warm by the time he gets his hand where it needs to be. His fingertips just ghost at first, then stroke past, gentle pressure, a little persuasion. “Relax. I got you.”

Relax? You snort. That’s a thing you’re not about to do anytime soon, because you’re still acutely aware that he’s trying to _get a finger in your butthole._ That second part, though—his other hand is stroking your side possessively, giving you a small bit of comfort, and his face is nuzzled into the crook where your neck meets your shoulder, pressing little kisses to your jugular and making your pulse jump to meet him.

His finger slips. Glides. “Breathe,” Bro tries to remind you, but it’s hard when he’s finally pushing in. You settle for gulping down as much air as you can, but just like oxygen with fire it only makes the burn worse. You’re oversensitive, so much so close to the surface of your skin, connecting with Bro’s body in so many ways, and his finger just keeps on—

Finally. You can feel the seam of a fingerhole of Bro’s glove right up against—you. When he drags it across, draws out again, it’s enough friction to make you moan. You haven’t even gotten to the good part yet and you’re practically squirming under Bro, pressing your body into his free hand and his mouth and okay yes maybe you’re bucking on him a little bit but you’re trying to move _with_ him, dammit, it’s not your fault you can’t tell where he’s going. “Come on,” you mutter under your breath, “come on come on come on…”

“John,” and is it just you or is he a little exasperated with you right now? “Please. Just be fuckin’ patient, okay, I have to do this.”

“Not so slow!” is your protest. Yes, that’s your hips rolling, because you know how it felt when he found what he was looking for and you want him to search and destroy again and why won’t he just--?

He drags out, thrusts back in, and your words turn into meaningless vowel sounds. “I know,” Bro keeps telling you, “I know, trust me, I’m fuckin’ _throbbing_ , I just wanna—anh— _do it_ already but I’m gonna hurt you if I don’t do this.”

Okay, yes, if you would stop being so myopic and self-centered for a few seconds you would have realized before now that Bro’s hips are tight against the mattress, muscles tensed, and now you realize it’s probably taking all of his self-control not to rut against the sheets to get enough friction to give him even a little relief. Still, what he’s doing is _torture_ , because it feels good but it’s nothing to make you scream or anything.

Then—ah. Yes, that, there, and Bro drags his fingertip across it and then surges to bury his finger in you so he can put all the pressure from his hand against it and your dick dribbles out more pre and holy fuck you’re screaming. So much better than when you did it to yourself, because getting off like that is like trying to tickle yourself, feels good and sensitive but you know what you’re doing to yourself at the same time as you’re feeling it and there’s no surprise, no jolt, too predictable.

Now, though, you can’t control how Bro manipulates you, even if you move your hips with him he still has a mind of his own and it’s like he wants to test you, see how much you can take before you’re blindly begging him for more. “God Bro that’s so fucking—ah! Rightthererightthererightthere—“ It’s so good you feel like you’re almost convulsing around him, twitching at the base of his finger.

Bro hides his devious smirk in your skin, but imprints it there with his teeth, fuck you hope those marks linger for weeks in case you can’t do this again you want to know, not just remember, want to still feel him on you even when he can’t be there. “Gettin’ a little greedy there, don’tcha think?”

“I don’t care don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop—“ He slows. You _whine_ , like a fucking _dog_ , tensing your fist in Bro’s hair and grabbing onto his arm so hard you’re sure it’s going to bruise. “Please please please fuck me oh my _God_ I’m going to _die_ …”

Bro moves his free hand up to your throat, puts pressure on it and forces your head back against the mattress even as he starts up more insistently with his one finger. “Don’t—say that,” he grits out darkly against your ear, “don’t fuckin’ tempt me, you have _no idea_ …”

Oh, but you do, because he draws out and you try to follow his finger with your hips but then he pushes in with two instead of one, and you feel twice as full, twice as much pressure right where you need it, stretched twice as far. You howl, and your throat reverberates against Bro’s leather-clad palm, like he’s massaging it out of you.

“God I just wanna,” Bro keeps babbling, “fuck you _stupid_ , so long you’ll forget what it’s like not to have me in you, wanna see you fall apart on my dick and cum and cum and cum until you don’t have anything else left in you, so hard it makes you shiver and you don’t remember anything but my name…”

You’re already shivering like a drug addict, high on the pleasure he’s feeding you with those two fingertips, gladly giving him your noises even as he drinks them out of you with his mouth on your throat. “Do it,” you urge him, voice already hoarse and breathy, and your head feels heavy and your mouth feels dry but none of that matters because you’re focused on what’s between your legs and the swoop in your stomach whenever Bro moves in you.

Bro lets out a desperate noise, butting your shoulder with his forehead, and his other hand leaves your throat and you can’t tell where it’s going before you hear him bite his lip and snuffle in a breath and watch his deltoids twitch and oh God he had to touch himself to give himself a reprieve, this is working him up as much as he’s getting you there, holy shit this is good. “Not today,” he gasps out, and he sounds so angry—at the universe, at himself—at you? “Can’t—won’t—gonna make this good, this is about you,” is he trying to convince himself?

“Please,” you croak out, not sure you know any other sound to make but that. You’re clenching around just two fingers and it’s not enough, how could it be enough after so long without him? Now that you’re under him you feel devastatingly _empty_ and you don’t know why, need him to bring things out of you with his hands and his mouth and his—his cock, need him now, need him yesterday, need him constantly.

“Yes,” he hisses, like you just said the magic word, giving him permission to do as he pleases with you. His hand comes back to your shoulder, sticky with his own pre, and he claws his way down, like he’s spurring you faster, or maybe—because he’s folding another finger in with the first two, trying to breach you with three, and the stretch _burns_ but doesn’t _hurt_ and the sharp feel of nail marks on your skin contrasts with that _ache_ as he opens you, slowlysoslowly.

This is as much as you’ve ever taken, right here, the first time he’s gotten you this far, and you swear you can’t catch a breath even as your pants fog Bro’s skin and mingle with his own desperate gasps, fuck this is as tortuous for him as it is for you. You let out a strangled sound when those three folded fingers hit up against your joy buzzer again, bucking under him, and he just lets out this ‘hah’ that might be a laugh or a ragged sigh as he tries to hold onto his composure but he pins you down with his own hips. You can feel the piercing going through the head of his cock against the sensitive skin of your stomach and the metal feels searing hot even compared to his skin and his dick is drooling onto you and you’re both sweaty and filthy and tacky with lube and you don’t _care_ , you can’t, because this is what you’ve been wanting ever since you heard his music at Dave’s party, knew the filthy innuendo was all for you, Bro fucking you in the ears when he couldn’t touch you like he wanted to.

Bro’s fingers slowly unfurl in you, putting so much pressure inside, and you feel nearly immobilized with it, unable to do anything but react to what he feeds into you and let these tremulous little noises out of your throat. “Just like that,” and you have to wonder how he’s holding on because you’re not, you’re already doped and drugged and blissed and it’s so sharp and raw that your throat feels bloody with how you’re trying to express it. “Please,” Bro says, ragged and low, and it’s a small consolation that he’s just as desperate as you are, “please say it…”

He didn’t have to beg, but it’s a nice touch, especially when he starts jamming your button again and a fresh surge of precum drools down your dick. “Fuck me,” and you’re so earnest about it that it hurts somewhere in your chest, “fuck me fuck me fuck me oh my _God_ —“

“Now?” You nod, frantic, not sure how else to reassure him to _get it in you right now before you die_. “Now. Okay. Holy shit,” he’s just as pumped about this as you are, and he fumbles over your body again and the shift of his hips up your chest drag his fingers in you too and you bite down a cry but you kiss every part of his chest you can reach, barely tonguing at his nipple and his whole body fucking _quivers_ over you when you do that.

He holds himself up over you again, fuck you don’t ever want to get used to the sight of him like this because he’s goddamn _gorgeous_ , and he has a foil packet between his teeth and it makes the bottom of your stomach drop out because that’s. A condom. This is happening, the two of you are actually going to _fuck_ like this, not you in him like that singular time but he’s. He’s.

“Trust me,” he says, eyes on fire, and he rips open the packet with his teeth and yes you do trust him because when he did it the other time the condom ended up fine except now he’s not slicking it on you, he’s trying to use his one hand not in you to smooth it down his cock. You’re a little thankful, because you have no idea how he thinks that piercing is going to work, how it’s going to feel, and having it constrained like that makes you feel a little more comfortable no really you’re not seizing up out of nervousness or anything. “Trust me, John, I’m not gonna hurt you, I don’t _wanna_ hurt you, just.”

He starts sliding his fingers out of you and you’re so desperate that you keen at the loss, feeling wet and open and exposed when he leaves you like that. Your hips move of their own accord, and Bro has to bring up his hand, his free hand, to pin you down to the mattress, and you have to remember to stay spread just like he had you or else he’s right this isn’t going to work. The fingers that were working in you are smearing lube down his cock. You have a momentary panic and your heart leaps into your throat because you just hope it’s enough and then Bro adds just that little bit more and.

You can feel his hips up against the insides of your thighs, and this is almost like when you would just rut against each other except he still has his dick in hand, not grinding it into your stomach but pressing the head of it against your taint fuck it’s so broad, so thick, and he puts that teasing pressure, further back, until he’s—he’s right there, you can feel him, him and the unyielding hoop of his piercing, and—

It hurts more than you thought it would, that initial breach, and you hiss in at the moment when Bro’s sighing out, breathing his air, trying to stay sane, trying to reassure yourself that it won’t feel like this forever. This is a lot more solid, more heavy, than just his fingers, pulsing of its own accord and it feels like he can barely get it in before his hips tense and he keeps himself from tipping forward and just holds himself there.

God, the rest of you feels empty but just this much is stressing your system, and you don’t know when your body is going to be ready to take the rest of him but you’re not sure it’s now. Bro gets his hand around your dick, pumps it once, twice, and revitalizes it with some of the enthusiasm you lost when he first started trying to—well. “Too much?”

“Not enough,” you say breathlessly. “Please—ahh!” Bro takes it as a cue to keep sliding, and it’s a little easier now that he’s split you open, residual friction but nothing else feeling like it’s _pulling_ quite so much, and the smoothness of his thrust into you gets you to croon sweeter than you’ve ever heard yourself in your life, taking the rest of him like you were meant to do it.

“Fuck, John,” and Bro is doing that thing where, if he doesn’t have his mouth on you, he’s running it a million miles an hour, “you’re so good, you feel _so fuckin’ good_ , so tight—“ You clench around him and Bro _shudders_ , eyes rolling back in his head and mouth falling open with a load groan welling up from his throat and pushing his hips further until he changes his angle in you. “Shit,” he whistles, drawing the word out of his mouth like a hushing sound, like he wants to calm you. “If you keep doin’ that I’m gonna—I’m not a saint, John, I wanna fuck you so good you _scream_ but if you keep doin’ that shit I’m just gonna take what I want and that’s not what this—“

Too much talking. You frame his adam’s apple with the crux of your thumb and forefinger, and Bro shuts up; you can still feel the moans he’s not letting out, the shared struggle of trying to keep his breathing even. “Move,” and your voice sounds like you’re ready to strangle him if he doesn’t.

Bro’s muscles unfurl. He rolls his hips away from yours, and you hiss at the change of pressure in you, and then he. It’s not so much a snap as a purposeful drive, a thrust that ends with him buried to the hilt, and there are so many things going on at once that it’s hard to keep track except by giving him noises to tell him how _good_ it is. Because once he gets deep enough, the full pressure of his cock is sliding past that—that thing that makes you scream, indirectly and it’s not enough but if he hits it dead on it’ll be too much and you’ll fracture, crack into a thousand tiny pieces and Bro’s going to have a hell of a time putting you back together.

It feels slow at first, but then again, you’re getting used to it. You need time. You can’t breathe. Every time Bro draws out he makes a small little noise like deprivation, and he crushes his whole body to yours every time he thrusts back in. Everything is slick and hot and sends a firestorm under your skin. And the tempo builds so gradually it’s a wonder you notice it at all, because everything feels drawn out, minutiae the details you focus on in these moments.

And then Bro holds himself up off you by planting his hands on the mattress, and he draws out when he does that and then he _slams_ his hips forward into you and it changed the angle and he hits _right up_ where he should be and you swear you white out for a second and you fucking _scream_. God he’s so good at this and you love how experienced he is because once he finds it it’s like his cock becomes this joy-seeking missile and he just obliterates you _again_ and _again_ and _again_ and he’s not even going that fast yet—

Before you realize it, he’s holding your hips up and you have one arm slung across your face to hide your eyes from him and your other hand is clawing down his thigh continually because while he has your hips like this he can absolutely pummel into you, brutalize you, and now you know, you _know_ that this is just as much about his pleasure as your own and your thighs are twitching from the force of it and your dick is leaking so hard it’s dripping down your sides and Bro just keeps fucking you. Really _fucking you_ , every meeting between your bodies producing a harsh slapping sound and the filthiest things hidden in his voice.

And it’s just so natural. As natural as the first time you ever kissed, as natural as joking with him, as natural as crawling under his skin, as natural as being with him. Terrifying, like most of the destructive forces of nature, but powerful, and even though you know it’s going to leave you changed the process is so simple that you have to wonder why the two of you never did this before.

You’re at the point where each of your cries is half-breathless; you’re going hoarse with trying to yell it back out to him. Bro is just _so good_ at this and he _knows_ what it’s doing to you and he can’t stop muttering about how much he loves your body, how much he loves being inside you and doing this to you and how good it is, and sometimes when you catch those compliments you instinctively clench around him and Bro just goes harder and it’s this endless feedback loop that only keeps spiraling higher.

Bro’s hips stutter. You stutter over your words. It’s too much, all of it, crashing down onto you and bringing you ever closer, and you barely have the presence of mind to warn him before you’re gone, twitching and pulsing and finally hitting that peak with him after so long _too long_ and it seems like it keeps going forever, spurts of cum icing over your stomach. Bro grunts at you “fuck, John, I’m gonna—I’m—“ and he surges forward and goes deeper than he ever has and holds himself there and pulses and you know, that was it, you just felt him _cum in you_ , and it just gets you to cry out and try to nut again and nothing happens and you cum dry from the fucking _thought_ of being so violated.

You start catching your breath, filling your lungs as far as you can and only sighing out once you’re sure you can’t survive without more oxygen. Bro keeps holding himself over you, his arms shaking, panting just as hard as you; his hair drips sex-sweat onto your chest. He shifts, and it changes the angle of him in you and you wish he never had to move but he does and you’re so _sore_ and you _don’t regret it at all_. You can’t see, too nearsighted, arm still over your eyes, can barely hear but you assume Bro’s taking care of things, until—

\--how could you fucking _forget_ , his tongue comes up gentle and soft to lick at your cum and clean you off and it makes you squirm in a sensual way because there’s _no fucking way_ you can cum again after that but goddamn if your body doesn’t want to try.

“Easy,” you realize Bro’s saying to you. His hands come up to sap the tension out of your muscles, rub along your arms and get you to unfurl just as he got you to let go. “I got you.” And he has to be just as exhausted as you but he’s still so focused, trying to make this good for you, and you just reach out to blindly touch his face because you have to let him know what this means.

Words. You try to open your mouth and nothing comes out because your throat is too dry and scratchy. “Holy shit,” comes out in a hoarse whisper.

“Wish I had recorded that,” Bro admits, looking a little sly. “When you say scream you really fuckin’ mean it.”

“I try,” you say. “Not to say things I don’t mean.”

Bro just lets out a tired little sigh that probably would’ve been a laugh if he had the energy. “We’re not doing that again. Ever.” When you let out a little noise of alarm at the thought, he just flumps down on the bed next to you, not even trying to hold himself up any more. “No, shitlick, I still wanna fuck you, I mean—we shouldn’t do that to ourselves.”

The whole staying-away thing. “I know,” you say quietly. “We shouldn’t have to.” Not if you can work him into your college schedule, not if you can keep lying to your dad like that, not if Dave will still have a job that takes him out of the apartment for a few hours at a time. You try to shift to curl in on your side so you can face Bro, but your entire body protests at that. “God, I’m so gross.” The two of you smell like sex, musk and sweat layered over heady hormones.

“Shower,” Bro offers, though he doesn’t look like he wants to get up either.

“You and your ablutions.” You jokingly roll your eyes at him. When you roll your spine to sit up, though, you let out a grunt. “Okay, you didn’t tell me I’d feel like this.”

“Like you just _got fucked_?” Bro points out. “Thought it went unsaid.”

You’ll grant him that. Still, your entire body _aches_ , and you know you have to peel yourself off the sticky sheets and attempt to get dressed but it’s just so goddamn _hot_ in here. “What time’s it?”

Bro gropes for the watch on his nightstand. “’Bout three-thirty.”

“Shit,” you whistle under your breath. “I told my dad I’d be home by now.”

Bro looks back at you with the same understated fear in his eyes. “Dave’s gonna be home any second.”

Nothing to hurry you up like the threat of discovery. Your entire body is going to hate you for this later, but you have to get dressed and get out the door. Your shorts are flung somewhere near the bed, but your shirt ended up in the hallway still. You’re shrugging it on while Bro’s sitting up on the bed, not even pretending to cover himself up, still stark naked. “I’m really sorry—“

“Don’t,” Bro reminds you. “Don’t do that shit, you got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“I don’t want to leave,” you say. Wait, you really said that?

“Dude, I love you, but you have to go, or it’s my ass on the line,” Bro says. “I swear, I’ll text—we’ll find a way. Just. Go.”

You smooth your shirt over your stomach—you look marginally less well-fucked now, though your hair is irredeemable—and move to kiss Bro. At the last second, you remember exactly where his mouth was, and you veer off to plant it on his forehead instead. More intimate this way. “Lazy ass, won’t even walk me to the door,” you comment.

“Fine,” he grumbles, though you know he’s making a show of being exhausted. He doesn’t even bother with boxers, just starts sliding back into his skinny jeans. (You will never understand how he does that.) “You’re so needy,” he teases.

“Hey. Just a few seconds ago someone _liked_ that about me.” Bro’s not kidding about expediency, though; he doesn’t even bother buttoning his pants, just zips them up and starts pushing you out of his room, down the hall. “Come on, just a few more seconds,” you cajole him.

“You need. To go.” He sounds so responsible—and like he hates himself for that fact. His hand is on the doorknob, and he opens the door of his apartment to let you out into the hallway, with the transportalizer right there next to your shoes and socks.

Except someone’s in the way.

Someone in the shape of Dave Strider.

You can feel Dave’s eyes on you through his shades, trying to take this in. Trying to figure out why there’s miscellaneous clothing in the hallway and why you’re barefoot in his apartment. Puzzling together the purpling marks on your neck, the scratches on your arms, the way Bro’s only half-dressed. He stares. Stares like he knows. And your heart drops out of your chest because _he was never supposed to know_.

You have no idea what to say. What to do. Even if you knew what to say, you wouldn’t be able to say it, because the sound of your voice would itself be incriminating. Even Bro, smooth, suave Bro, doesn’t seem like he knows what to do. “Hey,” you say weakly, trying to break the awkward silence.

“He was dropping something off for the old man,” Bro cuts in—thank God he found an excuse, you’re too brain-numbed to even try.

Dave stares at you. Looks over your shoulder at his brother. Turns back to you again. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, poke at the glaring holes in your story, make fun of you for taking off your clothes in the hallway. But just as he looks like he’s going to nail you on it, he closes his mouth again and shrugs. Tight. Terse. That’s not like him. Usually he’d be running his mouth. Is there something wrong with him? What’s he trying to hide?

You’ll take it, though. Your face burns as Dave takes your place in the apartment, shuts the door behind himself, and you’re left alone in the hallway before you transportalize home with your shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes there will be a sequel, yes go read Reverse Mrs. Robinson if you want an idea


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